Spotlight On: Wyrdwarden...

Some of you might have heard about the Mydwandr Supplement License allowing you, the community, to publish your own content for the game, with great leeway to fill in its various (and by design) gray areas. But what you might not know is that it's already bearing delicious fruit with Wyrdwarden, a Solo Campaign Exemplar by newcomer Tim Fox.

Now as the name suggests, it's primarily designed for solo play. Create your heroes, roll to decide exactly where in the world they begin, and proceed through a series of adventures well in keeping with the spirit of the setting. Spanning enemy fortresses and remote villages in need of able assitance, it's more than just a module. It's an entire campaign that clearly understands the soul of Mydwandr. If you pine for solo play, this is a great start...

But here's the fun part. While ostensibly meant for solo play, it's useful for traditional referees as well, and with little to no additional effort. From a gazatteer's reckoning of the seasons (something not covered in the core rulebook) to random tables for everything from wilderness features to place (and character) names, among others in keeping with Mydwandr's unique linguistics, it's a ready made campaign reference in the style of the old days.

The adventures are speedily converted to traditional tabletop, with the aforementioned random tables filling in many a blank. Referees willing to put their own spin on things will find lots of space to do so, aided by the product's strong foundation. Setting the above aside, there's an abundance of original content in the form of new monsters (hazards), which might be worth the price. Insectoid Antwyrd? Check. Fungal Mycanoids? They're all here...

And in great detail. More than for our own monsters actually, with more details about the creatures from the core rulebook. What do Urku look like? There's a table for that. The roving Woodwandr are a mystery no longer. This is a master class in making the game your own, rendered in glorious manual type. What it lacks in interior illustrations it more than makes up for in its 214 pages. Imagine finding a campaign notebook from 1974. This it it.

Now all of this is held together with a series of creative exercises to set the mood, a concept underutilized across the gaming hobby and most welcome here. Wyrdwandr comes in a digital version (a bargain at $4.99) or a spiral-bound printing in the style of old and easier to use in the heat of play. Mydwandr fans should definitely consider giving this a look...

AD&D's Front-Loaded Dilemma...

AD&D has some front-loaded demihumans. From dwarven saving throws to elven attack bonuses (and infravision, among other useful abilities), non-human characters enjoy substantial advantages up front. Humans get the full range of classes with no level limits, but nothing more. Add multi-classing, and demihumans have undeniable advantages. Casting spells wearing plate armor is nothing less than the best of both worlds and a powerful combo humans lack and won't make up for until advancement most won't reach...

So how do humans balance the ledger? Multi-classers divide hit points, so a character with 8 fighter hits and 2 magic-user points would get 5 (8+2/2), which is almost half those fighter hits, and well within a longsword's d8 damage. Add slower level advancement and humanity sees faster progression. But this is apples and oranges, especially considering those non-human abilities. AD&D's solution, and all of early D&D, was to impose level limits, which may come up short because in old-school gaming, low(er) levels are the only sure thing.

Humans have unlimited level advancement. But is this effective? Early editions were notoriously lethal; and setting violence aside, most characters probably didn't reach those lofty heights. Indeed, most online (i.e., Reddit, etc.) polls settle on 8-12th as the mean maximum level attained. A 3rd-level fighter/5th-level magic-user has some 8 combined levels, plus racial abilities, putting them on par with most high-end human achievers, who balance the proverbial scales only when it stops mattering in the scheme of things...

Which has inspired Robyn and I, as game designers, to give human characters their own racial abilities*, or in the case of race as class, counterbalancing abilities, with unlimited advancement (where applicable) or identical limits otherwise. Now none of this is to say that AD&D got it wrong. Far from it. But B/X and BECMI, its close cousins, embraced race as class and missed an opportunity to better achieve balance; and given the fun these games continue to offer, level limits are a trivial thing, but maybe one worth reexamining.

*Basic Fantasy, a personal favorite, has been doing this for years...

Bodies Change: An Opherian Mystery...

Some players have wondered why Stalkers of the Elder Dark features only three of the Opherian Mysteries. There has to be more, but we hoped to avoid even a level playing field with the cosmic horrors characters will inevitably face. That said, there are other dreadful Mysteries to be uncovered (and used) in a Faustian bargain, for no power comes without its price. So being October, a month of horrors, here's a fresh offering...  

BODIES CHANGE transforms the caster into an abaloth, with all the physical attibutes of one while retaining their human faculties. This utterance deals an instant 2d6 trauma, with 1d6 additional points per day spent in this condition. Traumatized characters ignore their phobias in this state; but mental breakdown causes them to become true (and mindless) abaloths pending recitation of an Elder Sign in the presence of the affected individual.

The above can be used to survive the void of space and/or withstand the debilitating effects of one's greatest fears, noting that phobias become active again upon resumption of the character's human form and faculties. Of what use this was to the Opherians remains lost to deepest time, although some writings suggest a reproductive process, if not a gift to cults consecrated to The Elder Ones. It may be best not to know such secrets...    

Once again, fair fights are antithetical to cosmic horror. That doesn't mean the players have no chance against the darkness. Far from it. But it does mean the characters are at best unnerved; and when taking up the tools of the enemy, they do so at tremendous personal risk as befits the terrifying powers at work. And if your players know even a hint of real fear at risking a beloved character's humanity, Stalker's true purpose has been realized.

Gaming's Timeless Tabletop...

Who remembers Pong in the 1970s? Robyn and I plead guilty. Not only was it cool that mere mortals could control what appeared on their screens; it was doubly exciting that we could physically interract, indeed control, what happened therein. Fast forward, we're playing Atari's square and conspiculously pixelized reality. We thought Intellivision was damn near Skyrim because one could (sort of) make out the baseball cap on the pitcher...

Fast forward again and its the future. Computer (and especially console) games are ambitious affairs with Hollywood's production values. Vintage games were primitive things, and while throwback titles exist, you can tell the difference. But tabletop games, they're timeless. Now the design and physical production might be dated (OD&D was clunky with more than a few oversights); but our theater of the mind was as modern as CGI.

The human imagination, beyond all gadgetry, has better special effects. Of course, a generation born to shoddier (you can see the zippers) movies doubtless refers to them, so maybe not universally; but as a rule, human imagination reigns supreme. And that's the timelessness of tabletop gaming. It's one step away from a Paleolithic clan gathering, but more realistic than centuries spent trying to nail our visuals with technology... 

Friends sharing stories. It's a human preoccupation. And given all the hysteria around television (the 70s version of a modern concern), you'd think roleplaying, with its social bent and academic pretensions, would have been a parent's dream. Another decade's drama, replete with bad religion and 80s hair metal; but it's nonetheless true that while technology tried to tell our tales, tabletop was there well before we finally started catching up. 

Autumn Is Gam(ing) Season...

No, not football. Tabletop roleplaying. It was autumn of 1977 when I fell in love with the Rankin/Bass Hobbit, and autumn of 1979 when I found out we were moving just as things were getting good with my local D&D group. More happily (and against the odds) it was autumn when we moved back (a different neighborhood, but with new friends) culminating in a season spent anticipating the Holmes Basic I knew Mom had gotten me because yours truly wasn't remotely subtle. Christmas 1980, the ending to a perfect fall... 

And so for me at least, autumn has always been (tabletop) gaming season; but why, beyond circumstance and random history, is it so? I suspect the following:

(1) Autumn is cooler. You start moving indoors for cozier entertainments. I'm sure this has changed, what with computer games and the mainstreaming of D&D; and, of course, I played over the summer months as well, although family vacations plucked various party members beyond recall, so maybe they weren't always the best months to be a roleplayer.

(2) October brings ghosts and goblins to every house for weeks ahead of the big night, and these channel the supernatural monsters in just about every dungeon.

(3) Christmas, the true culmination of autumn, brings many people's first gaming experience when not new additions to a pre-existing obsession. Birthdays and Christmas remain the perfect times to grow a collection. Games abound anymore. You can get a fascimile of early D&D for free (Basic Fantasy); but back then, rulebooks were precious comodities.

Of course, your experience may differ. Birthdays happen year-round, and the alchemy of circumstance means that everyone's gaming season has its own trajectory. 

And speaking of autumn, it's coming this week, and after a summer working on Mydwandr, finally available in hardcover, a break is definitely in the cards. Don't be suprised if Pits Perilous resumes a monthy format. Between Baldur's Gate 3 and Starfield, there's finally time to relax and explore some digital worlds. Not to worry though, autumn's fantasy bona fides won't be forgotten. There's an excellent chance the cooler (and shorter) months inspire more, not less, gaming goodness. In the meantime, have the best of all possible seasons... 

But You're Not Doing It Right...

How often do we hear that online? Gatekeepers are hardly an endangered species, and they absolutely thrive in certain environments. This stuff rarely interests me; but it came up in a friend's feed last week, and since it involved something I am interested in, original Dungeons & Dragons, I couldn't resist tossing my hat into the proverbial ring. My friend, it seems, was fighting the right side of an argument with an anonymous online other, an argument about the pastime and its rightful execution. You know, the gatekeeper's refrain... 

Specifically, they argued that since OD&D saw itself as a fantastic medieval wargame, miniatures and map boards were mandatory. Theater of the mind stuff was wrong because a free and open-ended game demands restrictions, apparently. I call this indefensible (and decidedly wrong-headed), but there's a lesson here for fantasy's gatekeepers. First though, this argument can't go unanswered; and believe it or not, the stakes couldn't be higher, especially in a hobby where literally everything happens upstairs.

While D&D (in all its flavors) is a fantasy simulation, that's not really what made it great or allowed it to grow beyond its wargaming base. It certainly helped. A lot, actually. But it was its open endedness that allowed it to become more than some niche pastime known only to a wargaming subculture. Gygax saw its potential immediately, so much so that he brought it up, the ultimate hint, in his Foreword. You'll have no shortage of players, Gary promised, which included those not by any stretch of the imagination ardent wargamers. Spot on...

And you can't get past the Introduction before finding out that miniatures were optional, although recommended. To quote Gygax, miniatures are not required. Now Outdoor Survival, for its gameboard no doubt, completed the list of required items, suggesting that counters, cardboard or otherwise, were an assumed element. But common sense was enough to know that Gary wouldn't tether his cash cow to another company's product forever. Anyway, our requirements are down to a lot less than our online gatekeeper thought.

Now it's almost certain that miniatures figured prominently in many early games. There's the famous (if not legendary) plastic dinosaurs (not even in a loose sense) that inspired D&D's now-ubiquitous owlbears and rust monsters. But not everyone could afford miniatures, which weren't yet available in the variety of later years, leaving many groups to forego even their cardboard substitutions. Where I grew up, D&D was catching on in so-called gifted classes at school, where non-wargamers were drawn to its potential sans-accounterments...

It quickly became theater of the mind, and why not? Of course, this speaks to the evolution of D&D away from its original wargaming roots, validating the gatekeepers who might rightly observe that the game was no longer being played as originally concieved. Except that Gary, a practical creative, made the tentative nature of any so-called requirements certain from OD&D's opening pages. At any rate, playing the game differently is another thing completely, especially given how obviously accomodating Gygax and Arneson were.*

Take away D&D's miniatures, and you take away an option. But take away the ability to tailor the game and make it your own, and it's reduced to Monopoly with Avalon Hill influences doomed to nerd subculture obscurity. Anyway, I can't imagine denying our hobby that which sets it apart. The gate swings both ways, and it has no guardians, only clever custodians bringing their active imaginations to life. Appropriately, OD&D ends offering one final nugget of  wisdom: decide how you would like it to be, and then make it just that way...

*Gygax would later clamp down (hard) on his creation; but this was pureblood OD&D.

Hit Points (Get to the Point)...

When I was a young gamer (so many years ago), hit points seemed like the most important attribute, at least first among equals; and I had a point. In a pastime known for its lethality, one's hits amounted to life itself. How could a mere magic-user hope to compete, much less survive, with 2 hit points? And what was the point (pun intended) of so few anyway? You could say likewise for the whole Player's Handbook; fighters, the works...

And what about your avarage (in AD&D speak) fighter? A typical veteran with a median constitution had a whopping 4-5 hit points, which explains why constitution remains a close second to strength for any martial profession. A robust fighter might get 8 hits, which was definitely better, but first level was still a pretty bitter pill to swallow. By way of example, that's two hits with a longsword. And these were a party's front liners.

I understood. Magic-users specialized in spellcraft (niche protection); but fighters did combat for a living (again, pun intended). And levels didn't necesarily help, since these were rolled randomly on notoriously fickle dice. Barring merciful house rules, a 3rd-level type might easily run 10-12 hit points. That's three average hits from a common longsword. Of course, armor would reduce the number of successful hits, but still. It appeared unworkable...

Until I had an epiphany. After several years of generous house rules designed to mitigate the obvious flaw of a game where you couldn't venture room to room killing everything, I had a flash of insight that put the whole thing into perspective. Twin revelations that transformed my immature campaign into a mature enterprise. I think we all have these moments; and while youth is wonderful, these two insights heighted my pleasure in the game:

(1) You don't fight everything. But door-to-door killing is how it works, right? Wrong. Combat is dangerous, so you avoid all but the most obviously winnable (and profitable) encounters. I admit, a certain charming, get-to-the-point fun was lost; but gearing up to explore the waiting underworld took on a depth that made a second childhood altogether unthinkable...

(2) If at all possible, take henchmen. Charisma isn't a dump stat. An expedition is just that, an expedition. If your game doesn't look like a trip to the unexplored Congo, you're potentially missing out on valuable loot and, of course, experience. There's safety in numbers, and hired help blunts the power of wandering monsters while increasing profitable fights.

Of course, this isn't universal, and our latest, Mydwandr, assumes smaller parties with uniform progression. But you won't find long (or short) rests to recover precious resources either, calling for the same caution AD&D advised. There's no wrong way to play games involving elves and magic, and you may recognize my youthful apprehension in our earlier titles. Even so, AD&D's approach was no mere oversight, and that's this week's point...

Dwarven Mail of Mydwandr...

So Mydwandr, Rules-Light Roleplay, is (finally) out. It's a game. It's a setting. It's both, although admittedly, the gaming aspect predominates. So setting aside the commercial, we'll focus on the magical armors made by the dwarves and gifted to the Kings of Jontavr, who jelously guard, and sometimes squander, this inheritance. These stories are many, and often humorous, although it speaks more to the magic of this mining people:

When a new king is crowned in Jontavr, the dwarves present them a suit of mail in observance of the alliance between their kindreds. These are magical, or perhaps so well-wrought to appear as such, with attributes to match (or flatter) the sovereign. Ragnar IV supposedly slew a wyrm on a boar hunt, earning the title Dragonslayer and recieving a fine suit of Dragon's Mail upon his ascent to the throne, although his rule was brief...

Now candid historians maintain it was a very young wyrm, and that the boy had help, which is almost certainly the case; but the dwarves heard and forged their offering.

Another is the King's Mail of Skard. An intemperate boy given to fighting, he carried a scar into manhood documenting his youthful violence; and the dwarves, bound to make their customary gift, fashioned the King's Mail. This exquisite suit of chainmail glittered, betraying what magics went into it. Simply put, it reduced all melee damage to a single hit, but only between sunrise through noon when his disfiguiring fight supposedly took place...

Accordingly, Skard avoided battle at night or later in the day, leading his counselors to call him Skard Half-Brave behind his back. Such caution made his years many.

All of this speaks to the nature of dwarven magic. As one of the three kindreds, dwarves certainly have the capacity for spellcraft, although culture (and necessity, given the endless waves of fearsome urku they must contend with) doubtless directs most to other pursuits, including their legendary smithcraft. Even so, magically gifted dwarves sometimes become enchanters, aiding their own cause and securing the alliances vital to their properity...

The Fabulous Bag of Maybe...

Most magic is pretty dramatic. But what if there's an echelon of so-called practical magic desired by adventurers for their convenience value. Maybe try these on for size...

Bag of Maybe. Has a 10% chance of producing some small, desired object.

Everful Skin. Holds an endless supply of some beverage but won't flood a room. 

Self-Warming Bedroll. Magically heated, the character is always comfortable. 

Steadfast Torch. Never goes out until commanded to do so or magically dispelled.

Waterproof Tinder. Self explanatory. This stuff never gets wet or gets used up.

These things don't look any different, and you'd need to detect magic to know they were more than their ordinary counterparts. Magic is spectacular; but sometimes practical's better...

Simpler Things: Then and Now...

Hope everyone had a happy fourth, even if you hail from someplace else. For me, chilling on the porch got me thinking about how my gaming tastes have changed with time...

Then: I bought transparent, spinkle-filled dice because they looked cool.

And Now: Give me solid, high-contrast colors. Black on yellow or white on green.

Then: I chose flashy, so-called realistic miniatures and worshipped Tom Meier, scoffing at the garish and lumpy Grenadier figures not knowing why I secretly loved them...

And Now: The worship continues; but I appreciate Grenadier for the same roughness I previously derided because a second look reveals how well their crudeness nails it.

Then: I used everything in every sourcebook I could get because it was new.

And Now: Just the first three booklets for OD&D, please. And the P&P core rules.

Some of this is aging. But I suspect it's perspective as well. Sourcebooks are still cool, and so's Tom Meier; but advanced age brings an appreciation for the simpler things...

Gaming's "Killer" Pastime...

Death finds us all, and I sometimes wonder why I'm still here. But tabletop gaming is quite possibly the most doom-laden enterprise short of kicking a sleeping badger, even when completely imaginary. If it were real, old-school gamers would be knee-deep in traumatizing death. Vietnam on steroids (I've seen some things, man). Well I have seen some things, imaginary, and funny in retrospect. I've kicked it many ways...

In the first room of the first dungeon from the first successful attack against me. The DM worried this would impact my future participation. Safe to say it didn't.

Picking an old man's pocket. I failed. The old man was a 12th-level magic-user, and I was immediately reduced to a halfling-sized heap of searing ashes.

Casting Fireball. The chamber was wide open. And flooded with natural gas. Boom! That one felt arbitrary; but in all fairness, I ignored the DM's (not-exactly-subtle) warnings.

I'd been rolling low all day. Just 4 HP left. My DM, ever the charitable friend, let me roll the monster's damage, banking on my trend to continue. I got a 12. Whoops.

Warriors throughout history, from Samauri to Vikings, sought a good death. Surviving was best, but to die well was everything. Fortunately, gaming deaths are imaginary, the pain physically theoretical. But since our characters are extensions of ourselves, the wish to die well remains stubbornly intact. Short of this (especially since it's imaginary), a humorous death remembered decades after the fact just might be the best of all possible ends...

Weiner Jokes and Rule One...

The very first adventure I personally ran was B2 The Keep on the Borderlands back in December 1980. I'd just gotten Holmes Basic and was eager to test my high-fantasy chops with my brother and indulgent mother. Oh, the serious adventures I planned. What I got instead, all objections aside, was my brother's Didlo the Cleric (really; his hasty sketch was nightmarish and retrospectively hilarious) and my mother's The Great Flirt, a magic-user glad to seduce her way through every male NPC within the game's eponymous Keep...

C'mon Eddie, be serious I'd say. How can I be serious when I'm Dildo the Cleric, he'd reply, unassailable reasoning beyond mortal power to debate. Their initial parlay at the Keep's gatehouse was an endless stream of penis jokes at odds with the seriousness I thought this first session required. I got over myself, thankfully, learning to appreciate the gonzo of the earliest hobby. But in this moment I craved seriousness, at least until I decided to throw in the towel and embrace the whimsy. My pretensions gone, gameplay emerged.

So at the Keep's inn Dildo met two devotees: Dick Headley and Elmer Pudd, both bearing a large cock (rooster) on their shields. They were looking for a cleric of their kind to aid in spreading the questionable faith, and it was off to the races. Meanwhile, The Great Flirt Cast Charm Person (successfully) on a local ruffian, and this, combined with her 16 charisma, made me appreciate her character's concept as more than mere silliness. Armed with these companions, they made their way into the wilderness in search of high adventure...

What they got was the mound of the lizard men, an encounter I watered down for fear of dropping the curtain too fast. The success of the game was a reflection on me, and it stung a bit that it still wasn't taken as seriosuly as I'd hoped for. But boy did that change once the imaginary blood began to spill. Once they realized their characters could die, they dropped the act and hustled to keep themselves alive. They'd grown attached to their characters because I let them have fun and be themselves, even meeting them halfway...

And that ended the session. They asconded with the treasure and returned to the Keep, planning a future expedition supported by henchmen that never materialized. I found other friends to game with and the rest is history. Good times though, and a swift education in campaigning etiquette. First off, while your players deserve a well-crafted setting, it doesn't exist solely to pump your creative ego. Second, it never hurts to meet the players where they presently reside, reading the room while remembering rule number one: to have fun.

Gateways to Adventure...

So I famously got my Holmes Basic set for Christmas 1980, and the rest is history. That delightfully primitive offering fueled months of gaming activity until I (inevitably) switched over to AD&D, with its slick hardcovers and expanded options. Mine shipped with B2, The (now-famous) Keep on the Borderlands, which was more than enough to get my nascent campaign going. It was an incomparable mix; but there was another MVP in that lineup which really started my juices flowing, and that was an awesome TSR catalog...

OK, so this thing did its job and made me want AD&D on day one. But there was so much more; and while I probably never owned half of it, the exposure nonetheless filled me with an excitement for what my new passion had to offer. There was Boot Hill, Gamma World, and Top Secret, which spoke to the endless of possibilities and secured TSR, at least in my young mind, as an established company. And even if I hadn't eventually gotten these, their mere presence communicated a single timeless truth: that anything was possible.

But it was the stuff I never bought that sealed the deal. From the spacey 4th Dimension to Divine Right, those little thumbnails suggested bottomless universes. There was aerial dogfighting Red Baron style in Fight in the Skies and the Arthurian romance of Knights of Camelot, the whimsical Snit's Revenge, and investigative chops of Suspicion. All of this communicated the possibilities of gaming; but the fact that I never owned these made them exotic and mysterious, adding immesurably to roleplaying's mystique...

So yeah, the catalog did what catalogs are supposed to do. It moved products. But the impressive volume of offerings, their breadth, depth, and hinted-at possibilities converged to suck me in and sell me on this lifelong passion. It also conveyed the (you'd think) obvious reality that I wasn't the only gamer out there, but instead part of a community. In short, these early catalogs (every boxed set it seemed came with another) sold me on the very idea of roleplaying, making it a true Gateway to Adventure for its fantasy loving devotees.

Don't Fight That Thing...

So someone (on Facebook, of course) posted that glorious Trampier wight from the 1st Edition AD&D Monster Manual. It was an invitation to talk about level drain; an irresistable bait when fishing for grognards and youngsters alike. The former largely came down in enthusiastic favor, citing an atmosphere of dread some modern games lack. The latter were split, but mostly found the whole idea mean-spirited at best. But this week's offering isn't about level drain so much as an injunction against fighting everything you meet... 

You need only hear the chatter around 5th edition to sense that modern characters are sturdier, with more powers sooner and greater access to healing. I can't say if they're more independently able; but they're clearly built to survive their first encounters better, with an implicit (if not explicit) expectation of thrilling cinematic combats where everyone shows off their awesome builds and gets to shine. Monsters are experience points on the hoof, an invitation to throw down in exciting mental movies featuring the characters.

There's nothing wrong with this. But I had to explain to them that old-school saw things differently. Not everything was there to be fought. Play was less a movie with grand battles the characters needn't refuse and more a strategically patient process. The goal was to secure as much treasure as possible at minimal risk. You don't engage wights in melee; are you freakin' insane? Or poisonous spiders. Or whatever. Bargain, steal, and save the big guns, and your hit points, for when the payoff justifies the use of scarce resources...

Because everything was a resource, and characters were squishy. Hit points, spells, potions and scrolls. And the lives of your henchmen, enlisted to swell the party's small numbers against hostilities. The charismatic handled tricky negotiations while the dwarves and elves translated to avoid a lopsided battle. Clerics turned the undead, magic-users cleared the room, and thieves stole precious gems without alerting their guardians. Physical combat was reserved for when the party could secure the upper hand and get the spoils.

To be clear, today's sessions have this too. But when the modern consensus finds level draining too harsh, it speaks to a different approach altogether. I mean, why play the original game of heroic fantasy if you can't be a heroic badass? And you can't be heroic if some undead travesty can erase many sessions of hard-won advancement with a single sorry roll of the dice. Buried deep within is the assumption that wights should be engaged in melee, and that the encounter shouldn't bear an unacceptable risk in the name of fairness. 

Again, not a problem. It's a big hobby. And it shouldn't be lost on anyone that our games likewise eschew level draining mechanics. Lots of games do. But this old-school approach saw gameplay as a cautious, patient expedition into the dark punctuated by moments of action much like the real-world wars that inspired our fantastical play. Why wouldn't enemies be dangerous, high-stakes foes? And why wouldn't the undead, of all things, be so horrific that players, facing only imaginary wounds, pretend death, rightly feared them?

Old-school wasn't dumb. Or mean-spirited. Its characters were heroic for their relative normalcy. Its enemies dangerous. The prospect of physical combat was never to be taken lightly, for death was often one unlucky roll away. And how did characters survive when endowed with an unimpressive 4 hit points? They avoided anything approaching a fair fight, safe in the knowledge that treasure was worth more than any monster. No superheroes occupied its world, just normals possessing courage, strategy, and clever restraint...

Bye Bye, Medieval Times...

So Wizards of the Coast is doing a lot with the so-called races; namely, they no longer use race, which they find problematic, offering species as a safer alternative. Whatever. I've always maintained there's no wrong way to do fantasy (with the exception of Gor), and that extends to WotC. I strongly believe it nudges D&D towards an Iron Age Star Trek I accept on pinciple but remain ambivalent to; but there's absolutely nothing wrong with exploring a universe where this is so. Even the puerile Gor I so despise has its place... 

But medieval fare is inherently anachronistic. Now I agree we shouldn't subject our players to racism and/or sexism or certain (to-remain-nameless) violations despite their otherwise historical context. Even so, there's real value to conveying the mindset of a more primitive society. Heliocentric (or even flat) worlds are well within bounds; and viewing non-humans as seperate races seems more in line with pre-scientific times. Erroneous perhaps, but being wrong about stuff is essential to medievalism and part of its charm.

And what constitutes medieval anyway? Chainmail? Swords? It only exists in historical context; more specifically, our historical context. That said, medieval is civilization fumbling ever-so gradually out of its dark ages towards an inevitable renaissance (they're not the middle ages for nothing). It lies between two extremes, and that's part of its charm. It clings to the past while embracing an emerging, if flawed, new thinking. A faulty science of wonky syllogisms (humors, angels on pinheads) straddling both sides of the coin...

Which leads to the gist of today's offering. Modern D&D, with its artificers and scientific pretensions, may no longer be that fantastic medieval wargame. These days, it's more like a post-renaissance, pre-modern game (with decidedly modern social values) bordering on steampunk. Still, the odd throwback exists. The world is big, and there's always barbarians to crash the modern party. Now no system survives the GM, who reserves final veto authority; but we have to be honest about the default setting of D&D nowadays. 

Now I initially thought species couldn't interbreed, a seemingly glaring oversight; but a kind reader corrected me. This calls for an update. Humanoid races could certainly interbreed, producing fertile offspring depending on how we define them. But given what we've learned about genetics, the whole concept of species might bear changing, which further argues against its use as a panacea. Another chum suggested folk as a suitable alternative, archaic for sure, and in keeping with the medieval roots of a fantastic medieval wargame.

Lead Age: Tom Meier's Elves...

I've professed my love (indeed, preference) for Dungeon Dwellers and Grenadier for their delightfully amateur aesthetic. But here's the part where yours truly confesses a tawdry affair with Ral Partha's excellent line of realistic (then and now) figures by Tom Meier. It was the storied 1980s; and being your typical young person, I appreciated beauty. My devotion to the amateur was already fermenting, but boy did I love the cool factor...

Take the Tom Meier's high elves. From the curly locks to pointy shoes (not to mention the folds of his adventuring cloak), this rendition really sticks the landing; and while its technical precision is clear, it also captures that vital something that nails elvenkind befitting one of Meier's artistic pedigree. This guy represented Elvor, an 80s rebirth of my 1970s character, resurrected for a return engagement in the MTV decade. Thank you, Tom.

Precision aside, I really appreciate the medieval authenticity. Pointy shoes are medieval, but also wedded to the later folklore of elves. Modern depictions vary, but all too often devolve into overdone, half-dressed, and/or donkey eared. There's no wrong way to do fantasy, and I mean no offense here; but it's nice to see miniatures bow to the mediveal/folkloric origin of tabletop's most valuable players, although that's just my preference...  

Meier continued to work in and out of gaming circles, founding Thunderbolt Mountain Miniatures and doing commissions. I've seen his hand in those delightful figurines (pewter, mostly) you'll sometimes see at flea markets. Anyway, his gorgeous depictions hold up alongside anything currently available. These days we enjoy a wealth of miniature options; but gaming's Lead Age was special due to the variety of its traditional creations.

Dragon Magazine's Banner Year...

1982; it was a banner year for AD&D, and a banner year for yours truly, both thanks to Dragon Magazine. Not only did its awesome Out on a Limb feature connect me to the wider roleplaying community (a thing beyond price), the magazine, an organ of TSR Hobbies, fostered D&D in new and exciting ways. Indeed, it marked the transition from a quaint, mostly wargaming phenomenon to the mainstream sensation it would soon become... 

With this in mind, and because I'm feeling nostalgic, here's a rundown of each monthly instalment from that year. I'm sure everyone knows where they can download these issues online (if not, ask someone), assuming you don't own the CDs. If so, read 'em again to appreciate my all-too-brief survey of each issue's historical importance:

Issue 57 (January, 1982): A slow start as far as long-term impacts; but I'd vote for Bloom's Play a Villain and Moore's Dungeons Aren't for Men Only opinion pieces (from Dragon's superlative Up on a Soapbox feature) as indicative of the hobby's maturation.

Issue 58 (February, 1982): It gets better. The Dwarven Point of view helped codify the dwarven race and its assorted deities, who persist into the latest edition.

Issue 59 (March, 1982): And here it got real. We see the first official mention of (magic-user) cantrips and the excellent Halfling Point of View feature, with more undeniable impacts to D&Ds emergent mythology. This issue nicely previewed AD&D's Unearthed Arcana.

Issue 60 (April, 1982): The Elven Point of View did for our pointy eared friends what the other demi-human features did for their kind. True springtime in D&D land...

Issue 61 (May, 1982): And the fun continued with The Gnomish Point of View, illusionist cantrips, and exotic weaponry. In short, a treasure trove of content, with Wormy's intensifying adventures rounding out what might easily be one of the year's standout offerings. 

Issue 62 (June, 1982): Ok, so the Larry Elmore cover signaled a seismic shift going forward, with The Half-Orcish Point of View rounding out the player races quite nicely.

Issue 63 (July, 1982): Readers were treated to a preview of the Barbarian class (more presaging Unearthed Arcana, a thing Gary hinted at with the sublety of a heart attack), while The Humanoid Point of View offered a useful perspective on D&D's best villains...

Issue 64 (August, 1982): Whew! Readers got a break from all that great content; but an excellent Assassin's Guild article by Elizabeth Cerritelli and Lynda Bisson highlighted the role of women, already growing in the hobby, as game content designers of note. 

Issue 65 (September, 1982): Another quiet issue; but Gygax offered a guest editorial speaking to the convention scene, signalling the growth of the hobby, and suggested some new character classes and a few ideas for customization, which admitted the changing expectations of a fanbase wanting more than mere wargaming figures. Good stuff.    

Issue 66 (October, 1982): This one debated giving clerics edged weapons, presaging future editions in this regard. Impact-wise, this was an important, if subdued, advance.

Issue 67 (November, 1982): Gygax's influence is strong here, with new magic user spells, Greyhawk creatures, and deities. This is Gary's issue through and through, and it really spoke to the growth of the pastime and its collective content. Given what would eventually happen, this was Gygax at the height of his powers - and control over the D&D game.

Issue 68 (December, 1982): Another quiet issue; but there's more interior color (already a growing trend), signalling a growing budget and general mainstreaming of the hobby. I'll admit to having mixed feelings here; but the scene had to grow, and history had spoken.

Of course, each issue was loaded with other important content. I'm just singling out what seems (to my admittedly biased eye) to be the most historically significant events from 1982's assembled pages. Everything Dragon related is historical at this point; but I'd like to think I saw firsthand a major shift in the hobby over the course of that year. A move towards greater cohesion, maturity, and incusiveness. For those who remember, it was a banner year...

Funneling the Fantasy Sausage...

There's an ascending (or rather, descending) structure to our fantasy campaigns*, which hopefully enforces the specialness of its magical elements while preserving a basic humanity, even when roleplaying elves. The rule of the day is mundane above, fantastic below, with ascending danger through descending levels. And all of this punctuated by the odd outsized evil that exists not to be fought, but to be avoided - because, realism...

So first, the SURFACE. This is faux medieval; think stock peasantry who've never seen anything more exotic than some dwarven merchants at the fair, and never more than a dozen coins of any denomination in one place. Barring some adjacent Mordor-styled land barred against intruders and home to nameless evil, it's primordial forests stocked with wolves and the scourge of humanity. Maybe orcs. We've talked about this. 

Next, we enter the DUNGEONS. All that normalcy on top? Gone. Here monsters dwell, an endless assortment of fantastical creatures. Basilisks? Check. Hellhounds? One among many terrifying foes. And these come neatly ordered by dungeon level. You know where the easiest monsters dwell - and where the best treasures await. The deeper the deadlier, all packaged in a bounded sandbox of infinite choice and a real sense of purpose.

Finally, we paunctuate this with UNBALANCED foes to spice things up. Think a minotaur on level one or a red dragon living on level three. Why would there be this strangely perfect sorting of monsters except to ensure game balance? Games require this abstraction; but life isn't fair, and these serve mainly to be avoided while the party seeks better odds and lives, hopefully to confront them eventually. It's abstraction meets realism...   

And lo, the funnel. Start with a (relatively) normal surface with (rare) demihumans and a faraway land of darkness. Add an extensive underworld stocked with incredible foes, sorted by level - but punctuated by overpowered enemies to remind everyone how arbitrary this arrangement can seem, and that not everything is meant to be fought. Magical characters are special and combat encounters balanced - except when they're not, so stay sharp!

*Your mileage may vary; but this is our take, and we welcome your thoughts...

Our Top Three Old-School Dragons...

With the possible exception of wizards, dragons alone are truly emblematic of fantasy, whether of the gaming variety or the stories inspiring such diversions. Movies are a part of this, bringing these incredible creatures to life and, not suprisingly, inspired the earliest hobby as well. Now the point's debatable; but it just might be that pre-CGI dragons were cinema's old-school equivilents, but which ones were best? After some nostalgic consideration, Robyn and I debated our favorites and agreed on the following fire-breathing greats:

 #3 Smaug (The Hobbit, 1977). An animated classic, this nonetheless captured the feel of its reptilian foe with an almost mammilian look and some of the best voice acting (thank you, Richard Boone) Bilbo's fire-breathing dragon would ever receive. The 2013 Hobbit was a hot mess, and I'll admit to some unkind "appraisals" of reviewers who described its version as delicious, although Cumberbach did a fine enough job. Hand-drawn animation was definitely a force multiplier in this earlier time, bestowing a realism beyond many...

#2 Sokura's Dragon (The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad, 1958). This one came wedded to a charming story where evil wizards were still defined by their minions as much, if not more, than innate spellcasting power. Ray Harryhausen was a master craftsman, creating gorgeous models and exploting the limits of stop motion to imbue his monsters with soul, something fans of the process will doubtless understand. His dragon was a flightless fire breather, and its final battle with the cyclops is reason enough to give this reptilian high praise... 

#1 Vermithrax Pejorative (Dragonslayer, 1981). This (sometimes overlooked) masterpiece succeeds despite, and not because, of its fantasy elements, although the star of the show, born of excellent pre-CGI practical effects, remains its dragon. Benefitting from a combination of superior world building and one the best entrances ever, Vermithrax looks and somehow feels more real than later, computer-generated fare. Watching it soar in its final contest above the darkened clouds reveals the scale of its immense power like no other...

Your mileage may vary, and that's a good thing. There's no wrong answer, and it's always fun to see the imaginary brought to visual life. Modern CGI gets it done; but there's something about primitive, hands-on special effects, whether hand-drawn animation or meticulous stop-motion foes to remind us why the older hobby felt so right. It was equally homebrew (read: accessibly hands on), inviting everyone to join in. Now Harryhausen's creations were clearly more beautiful than OD&D's clumsy production; but really, both did the same thing.   

We've Been Sick, and So Can You...

So the Norovirus (AKA stomach flu) ran roughshod through our family, graciously extending the dubious privilege of projectile vomiting and diarrhea. Fun. Luckily it came in waves, leaving me much improved when Robyn had her time and needed my help. It really makes you appreciate being well; and once I could think of anything more than a merciful death, gaming sprung to mind as it often does. Namely, how to introduce illness to a game, and how do we keep it simple? Sickness is terrible, but so's combat. Here goes... 

The AD&D Dungeon Master's Guide had a table for illness (pages 13-14), suggesting the referee check monthly. My younger self thought this was canon, but quickly realized rolling on a dizzying array of tables each game month wasn't my style. Now I'm sure some hard-liners might actually do this (good for them); but these days, I'm sure most only hit 'em up when convenient and/or mine the charts for ideas. This alone makes it well worth the price; but we miss some good opportunities unless we can simplify for practical convenience. 

So first, the WHEN. Instead of rolling once (per character) per (game) month, just define specific locations where infection might occur. Perhaps a filthy pool in a dungeon, not every one, but specific pools even when the possibility exists elsewhere. Now assign a nominal probability (say, 1-2 in 1d6) standing in its fetid waters, raising this further if open wounds are so exposed. Ditto for comparable surface areas. This is realistic and convenient, delivering rational consequences that drive future actions by the player characters.

Next, the WHAT. Instead of more random charts, just define exactly what illness awaits the unfortunate victims and their relevant impacts. The pool in room #12 has a 1-2 in 1d6 chance of giving you the shits - or worse, with consequences beyond comic relief. At a minimum, I suggest that sickness precludes all adventuring activities, with saving dice required to prevent unconsciousness and 1d6-ish damage (perhaps more from fainting and bashing your head, which I've done). Of course, normal/non-magical healing should be impossible...

Until the sickness has run its course, which leads to HOW LONG. 1d6 game days for the nastiness to germinate, followed by 1d6+1 days suffering seems reasonable; and while some afflictions last longer in the real world, this is complaint proof. Diarrhea and vomiting should cause dehydration and possibly additional damage, although in a simpler game serve largely to justify limits on strenuous activity. Divine and/or magical healing restores hits, and cures immediately reverse the illness. Otherwise, afflictions must run their course.   

Of course, house rules are encouraged; and if you like the deep and crunchy, homebrew charts can be as detailed as your medical imagination allows. But for those opposed to random calculations ad nauseum, intriguing possibilities still await without feeling arbitrary or artificially imposed. Your players will know to avoid wading in stagnant pools and learn to cover any open wounds, adding realistic threats and underscoring the power of consequence in a world otherwise given to whimsy. Sage advice in this and any fantastical world.

WotC: In the Name of the Game...

There's been a lot of talk about WotC and the OGL. I won't go into that since it's being debated by enough already. But what does stand out to Robyn and I is an attempt (nothing new, by the way) to hoard, indeed own, the native creativity of its customers. Tabletop roleplay isn't a new car or a can of Diet Coke. It's a set of written rules to a game where the action takes place inside the participant's heads and can be easily homebrewed by the creative types who play them. I'm guessing Wizards wishes it wasn't...

The concept of the game is the game. Once exposed to the division of labor between the players and referee, the idea of classes or skills, hit points, armor and equipment, and advancement tied to in-game success, you have what you need to either reconstruct a game or create something entirely new. Add monsters and treasure and you're on your way to something all the better for a sense of ownership. Most of us like buying and houseruling the work of others; but even this drinks from the same bottomless well of inspiration...

You can monetize this to a point; but I get the impression that WotC, perhaps like TSR before it, failed to recognize what they're selling - and the limits of monetization.

You can't stop houseruling; you can't stop the creation of original systems, and you almost certainly can't market a subscription service selling not only what its customers could do themselves, but what they inevitably will be doing just by approaching the hobby for what it is and what makes it so appealing. The genie's out of the bottle, and barring the collapse of civilization and its collective experience, our gaming hobby will thrive. Fantasy roleplay grows sideways into endless new directions, carried not by companies, but by its players...

Rusted: The Early D&D I Briefly Had...

Ok, so I never lost a winning lottery ticket. That's good, because kicking myself in the ass over potentially squandered millions is nothing I'm keen on experiencing. I don't take certain things well, and I'm guessing this would definitely qualify. But there was that one summer, sometime in the mid-70s, before Star Wars and after Planet of the Apes, when I held a piece of early D&D in my hands, only to lose it because kids lose stuff all the time...

What I lost was a bulette, an owlbear, and a rust monster. Apparently I lost an umber hulk, although I never saw the family resemblance. These iconic baddies first appeared in a collection of so-called prehistoric monster toys from Hong Kong (every cheap childhood toy was tengentally connected to the place); and I'm sure I found these gems in the impulse aisle of the neighborhood Win Dixie, cheap and easy for an indulgent mom.

They captivated me from the start such that I remember them all. Every one. I was a dinosaur fanatic from early on, so it was clear they mapped to no known species. But then, I also appreciated Japanese kaiju, and I'm sure that was part of it. First among equals though was the bulette, which I also imagined to be a shark monster, and a certain insect-like creature destined by fate to become a rust monster, bane of magical weapons everywhere.

I had fun with these. I really did. In fact (fun fact), I even invented a very early version of Monsters Destroy All Cities where gigantic kaiju settled their differences by rolling a single d6 each. The higher result was victorious, with ties getting a second round until someone fell, defeated in imaginary battle. I think my longest fight lasted 30 seconds or so. Is it any wonder I was destined to discover tabletop simulations? Certain things are fated...

These delightful toys kicked around my junk pile for a few years, even after I discovered a life-changing thing called Dungeons & Dragons. But their significance to a hobby still young in 1978 was lost on me, although in retrospect, those pseudo-dinosaurs were influeing early gameplay while I was fighting 30-second battles in my dining-room. Such convergences are rare and obviously coincidental; but I don't mind losing the toys if it got me a passion.