The Player's Handbook Pulse...

Dungeons & Dragons has gone through many iterations, and its cover artwork has always encapsulated the state of the hobby at any given time. But it was the various Player's Handbooks, being dedicated to the ultimate act of adventuring, that spoke to how the game saw itself and the players (and characters) in its charge. Without a doubt, these evolving covers documented big changes over time, especially the first three, which straddled years of evolutionary changes while broadcasting exactly what experience was offered... 

OD&D MEN & MAGIC (1974). Arguably the first Player's Handbook, this sported a simple, line-copy illustration of a medieval-inspired fighting man. No action-packed heroics. No background save the card stock it was printed on. This was amateur production from an as-of-yet amateur industry, one suggestive of its quasi-historical influences, complete with a disposable fighter emblematic of its wargaming premise. Basically, a skirmish-type wargame where players identified with a revolving door of replaceable characters.

AD&D PLAYER'S HANDBOOK (1978). The first handbook by name, this one began D&D's transformation towards something more professional. Trampier's hardcover was at once amateur and accomplished, with its dungeon setting leaving no doubt as to where the action was supposed to be. Its fighters were medieval authentic, its magic-user straight from the storybooks that inspired them. Dungeon expeditions, captained by enduring character types, marked the transition from traditional wargame to more story-centric adventures...

AD&D 2E PLAYER'S HANDBOOK (1989). The evolution from amateur press to professional property was finally complete, although this doubtless occurred in the mid 1980s with the mainstreaming of the D&D product. Jeff Easley, part of the next generation of gaming artists, rendered OD&D's lone fighter as a mounted hero, which might have suggested a growing slant towards individual characters, but probably not since the original OD&D boxed set took a similar approach. Mostly, the cover speaks to D&D's commercial status.  

Of course, it's easy enough to retroactively assign meaning. The above is no exception, although D&D's transition from amateur to professional is obvious enough when comparing cover artwork alone. But OD&D's interchangeable hero and quasi-historical pretensions absolutely suggested a 1970s wargame as opposed to Second Edition's modern superhero style, with AD&D showcasing the hobby's golden balance. If anything, these first Player's Handbooks had one finger squarely on the pulse of a game that remains diagnostic...

AD&D's Demi-Foot Forward...

AD&D's demi-humans are primarily known for their multiclassing abilities. After all, what adventurer doesn't occasionally dream of casting spells from the iron fortress of plate mail armor? In an imaginary game where class defines a lion's share of one's abilities, these characters bring real versatility, albeit at a price of much slower advancement and the level limits Gygax and company thought necessary. It might come as a surprise, therefore, to suggest that single-classed thieves are the demi-human's best foot forward... 

If single-classed thieves are good enough for humans, they're good enough for non-human characters, especially since the latter are objectively superior in aggregate, at least with respect to the thieving profession. But first, the elephant in the room: infravision. The ability to see in total darkness (with some conditions) alone constitutes an awesome advantage for those preferring the cover of shadow. But demi-humans come equipped with special abilities particularly well suited to their ancestries without the usual level limits.

DWARVES, customarily seen as miniature Vikings, become engineers and sappers in line with their mining civilization. Their superior constitution and saving throws allow them to better survive triggering certain deadly traps, and they enjoy generous (10-15%) bonuses to opening locks and finding/removing traps, offset by minor (5-10%) penalties where walls, stubbornly resistant to their limbs, and reading languages are concerned. Finally, their skills with mining and construction compliment this stealthy package most effectively.

ELVES, traditionally seen as archers extraordinaire, lose nothing and gain everything by choosing the thieving profession. Their high dexterities, already a prime requisite, guarantee some great missile bonuses with the short bow per Unearthed Arcana (slings otherwise), supplemented by a +1 racial bonus that includes the small swords allowed in any iteration of the rules. Backstabbing benefits accordingly. Add some solid (5-10%) bonuses to most functions and scant penalties, plus a knack for secret doors, to top it off...  

It really depends on whether Unearthed Arcana is used, because this option gets Legolas, although the Player's Handbook still delivers the woodland guerillas most elves are.     

HALFLINGS, small and defined by the fact, make natural thieves, enjoying constitutional boons similar to dwarves with the superior dexterity of elves. Alone among the demi-human practitioners, they enjoy broad bonuses (5-15%) to most functions, with penalties (mostly) similar to their dwarven counterparts. They also enjoy a sense of grade and direction, being appropriate to a race of burrowers, and an uncanny ability to surprise that facilitates what sneak attacks may follow. Fans of Tolkien will recognize these keen burglars.   

There are others, of course, and more to say about each. But the point is clear. Single-class thievery comes naturally to demi-human characters, bestowing unlimited advancement augmented by racial abilities humans can't match barring magical intervention, ensuring the racial identities players aspire to. No streetwise thugs (not necessarily), these smaller folk leverage their natural condition towards survival in a setting of larger peoples and dangerous foes, which is something to consider before rolling yet another multiclass adventurer...  

The Myth of Death as Stakes...

It's been said, especially in old-school circles, that character death is essential to the pulse-pounding stakes good adventures depend upon. Combat means nothing without danger, which means nothing if not the threat of death and dismemberment. Victory is all the sweeter if we can delay the inevitable end. Normally, this truth bears no further explanation except that imaginary death lacks the same sting, undermining the whole death-as-stakes paradigm essential to the experience. Reincarnation is a fresh character away...

Roll 3d6, in order, and we're back in the game. Unless, of course, we grow attached to our characters and inevitably struggle with the demise of a beloved persona. The game just isn't the same starting from scratch, especially when so much of our enjoyment stems from one particular character. In this sense, the loss is palpable. It's the same friends playing the same game but approached from an altogether different perspective it takes time to acclimate to, especially in a longer campaign. In this sense, the stakes are absolutely there. 

But it's still imaginary death, and I suspect most of us would welcome a reroll every 75 years or whenever the end inevitably comes. Short of euthanizing a player when their character succumbs to death (not a serious suggestion), the threat is pretty much toothless in any real sense, caveats notwithstanding. Lethal, old-school settings trivialize death, preventing the narrative attachments needed for high-stakes violence, whereas story-driven games prone to 19-page backstories skew towards survival, blunting death's influence...

All of which means that death as stakes is sort of a myth. Or put another way, it only works where roleplaying elements are the strongest and survivability (to the point of genuine attachment developed over continuous sessions) is allowed to happen. Things are valuable when they're rare, and death the most impactful when cherished characters face danger, however imaginary. Not surprisingly, it's the strategic players able to cheat death the longest who raise their own stakes, with survival casting mortality's unwelcome shadow.

Dungeons: Bottom-Up Balance...

Balancing encounters is an ever-present concern for GMs not wishing to slaughter the party before gameplay even gets started. Danger abounds, whether at the hands (or claws) of monsters and/or poorly avoided traps in the dark, assuring that someone will eventually die in the course of their adventures. Old-school campaigns are famously life-taking, and to hear people talk, you'd think its progenitors were wholly unconcerned with the calculated fairness characterizing modern gameplay. Challenge demands an unfair universe.

But is this actually true? In a word, of course not. Make no mistake, old-school games were unforgiving even to otherwise powerful and well-prepared adventurers, especially given random chance's unsteady hand. The answer was a deliberate paranoia and making sure to avoid even a fair fight to escape an unfortunate "1" on the dice. And really, isn't this more realistic? Why exactly would (or should) every wilderness encounter coincidentally match the wandering party's current abilities? Avoidance is a fair strategy...

Which is to say, the players were expected to bring balance upon themselves by treading cautiously while picking their battles. But gaming's creators built a way to apply some much-needed balance into their creation with the concept of level(s). This is self-explanatory to a point, with higher character/monster/spell levels denoting correspondingly greater proficiency around which to assess and assign risk. But so-called dungeon levels remain the singular brilliance of the hobby's creators, for they safeguard that sense of balance.

While dungeons may have dotted the campaign map, these early games envisioned a single underground, descending many levels and under constant renovation, where adventurers sought their fortunes. Castle Blackmoor. Or Greyhawk. These were continuous subterranean destinations, self-contained and ever-changing. And each level corresponded to the levels, where applicable, of its inhabitants, allowing players to assess the risks and balance desired rewards in a sprawling place with endless interconnected strata...

A third-level party could explore the 3rd level of the dungeon for a balanced experience or delve deeper, facing ever-increasing dangers for greater rewards in a perilous lottery, gambling everything in heroic style. Alternately, they could stick to shallower depths, living easy for sure but getting far less for their troubles. The game rewarded the former while penalizing the latter, encouraging balanced encounters but leaving this strategic option open to parties having different priorities and access to many interconnected levels.

Vertical cross sections weren't just visually cool. They laid out access to different levels for just this purpose. Maybe a secret staircase connects the first level to the third, bypassing the second and allowing a different (and undoubtably critical) order of events. Imagine finding that flaming sword before those hobgoblins. This applied horizontally as well, and good GMs avoided railroading. In any event, the dungeon formed a bounded sandbox allowing heroic adventures in a carefully balanced setting that felt completely natural...

Now all of this is doubtless "no-shit" territory for many, but it's worth noting that while game balance, ultimately the province of the GM, remains a largely top-down affair, old-school conceptions of the singular dungeon and its far-flung levels made for a bottom-up approach that was realistic, empowering, and ultimately fair. Traditional megadungeons weren't for spectacle's sake alone but serviced a complex and interconnected system made to provide a fair and balanced experience with endless options tied up in a concise package.