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.