Galloway vs. Gaming Gonzo...

Devotees of D&D in the early 1980s were lucky to encounter Bruce Galloway's master treatise: The Highest Level of All Fantasy Wargaming. The title was a bold claim, clickbait in the days before clickbait, intriguing to those of us with a bottomless appetite for whatever gaming we could get our hands on. And it was certainly ubiquitous. As I recall, my 14-year-old self found his copy on Winn-Dixie's magazine rack. Mom didn't approve of its occult artwork, but knowing her offspring, she acquiesced with little argument... 

Between the casual, unexamined sexism (obvious even to a teenage boy) and overly dense rules keen on subverting the players' agency, a fine collection of essays spanning fantasy literature's greatest themes got the reader thinking, and its medieval reference materials may have been its ultimate triumph. And in all fairness to Galloway, his obvious distaste for Gor tempered some of its generational misogyny. His remains a seminal offering, but my younger self rejected what was clearly his leading argument, summarized below: 

"In many ways, however, D&D is unsatisfactory...The party of adventurers will usually be an oddball assortment of warriors wearing armor and bearing weapons from a wide variety of cultures and historical periods; Black and White magicians; thieves, clerics...Apart from the sheer unlikelihood of such a motley crew being able to agree on any course of action without coming to blows, why should they associate together in the first place...Motive is the key word. D&D scenarios exist in a vacuum, and that is why we call them unsatisfactory...a fantasy scenario must contain its own consistent and intrinsic logic."

This was doubtless a marketing ploy. Why buy the book? Here's why. Galloway must have understood that the rules weren't imposing a setting so much as providing raw materials, drawn from history's abundant source, to fashion the campaign. Want history? Referees can make it happen. But most campaigns don't even occupy our universe, redrawing the lines beyond all reproach. Dwarves invented Renaissance plate armor, elves the English longbow to their specifications and on their timeline. This, alone, negates any argument...    

But there's more. There's gonzo. Take the game as offered and you do get a collection of armor and weaponry. You absolutely achieve that motley assemblage. Chaotic wizards, respectable, law-abiding heroes. And so what? There's this thing called fun, and an eldritch logic can still prevail in this environment. The introduction of dragons and wizards, alone, violates realism, and the same logic which allows this can exert its own consequences when some rule gets broken. In Wonderland, this intrinsic logic can be different.

These objections percolated within my adolescent brain, and to his substantial credit, Galloway appeared to anticipate as much, beseeching his D&D-oriented readers to see the power of his point despite such disagreements. Galloway's greatest achievement was a medieval reference manual complete with essays on everything from fantasy literature to the art (indeed, the necessity) of world building. And it taught this 14-year-old the value of his personal intuitions and how best to turn disagreements into something worthwhile...

Note: I still disagree on many counts, but find things to praise in this historic publication, including, most especially, its astrology, angels, demons, and solid essays.

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.