"Now Make It YOUR Tékumel." (Part I)

Last week, in the comments to last week's post, "Rules, Rules, and More Rules," reader Bonnacon asked me to elaborate on something I wrote there. Specifically, he wanted to know more about this:

However, I still kept the magic-user and priest classes as separate things with unique skills for each, along with lots of other stuff that doesn't quite "fit" into the setting as it evolved. My vision of Tékumel is my own and undoubtedly at odds with the "official" version in several places.

 This is all in reference to my ongoing – and soon to end – decade-long House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign. When I began the campaign in March 2015, my intention was to stick with the original 1975 EPT rules as closely as possible. That was, in fact, part of the reason I started the campaign in the first place: to play in Tékumel using its original ruleset. Those rules are quite "primitive" by contemporary standards, being an offshoot of 1974 OD&D. For the most part, I'm quite fine with this, since I prefer minimal (even minimalist) rules over more complex ones.

Of course, in extended periods of play, especially over the course of ten years, it's all but inevitable that even minimalist rules will start to change in response to unexpected circumstances. That's certainly the case with the House of Worms campaign, where we've made little adjustments here and there. For example, I've allowed the optional adventurer character class from issue #31 of Dragon (and further developed by Victor Raymond). Similarly, I clarified the way that weapon skills work in the game, since the rules don't really explain what purpose they serve or what penalties a character might suffer if he doesn't possess the skill associated with a weapon he's currently wielding.

The matter is further complicated by the fact that Empire of the Petal Throne presents an early version of Tékumel, the earliest published. Although most of its setting is present in the 1975 rulebook, much of it is still vague. For example, clans are barely mentioned at all, despite later being a foundational aspect of Tsolyáni society. Now, since I was a long-time Tékumel fan playing in the 21st century, I was already familiar with many elements later added to the setting. Even though my goal with the House of Worms campaign was to go back to the beginning, so to speak, it was nigh impossible for me not include things like clans, even though EPT doesn't really include them.

Furthermore, even in later Tékumel materials, such as the encyclopedic Tékumel Source Book released in 1983, there are still matters that are not fully explained or even discussed. Any attempt to referee a campaign for more than a short period of time will certainly run into "blank spots" that needed filling. That's especially true of the deeper mysteries of Tékumel – prehistory, the gods, parallel worlds, the College at the End of Time, and so forth – but it's just as true of even more mundane topics, like the lands at the edges of the continental map.

It has sadly been my experience that a lot of Tékumel fans have been reluctant to come up with their own answers, instead rushing to the Source Book or archived Usenet posts from the 1990s for the Truth™. I think that's a mistake for many reasons, not least because the introduction to the Source Book itself ends with the following:

Even if we were to issue a monthly newsletter or exchange data by telephone, there is no real way to prevent your history from diverging from mine. I can indeed provide further materials – and some are already available from the publisher of this book – but we cannot keep your Tékumel from drifting away from mine. This is as it should be. You have just bought MY Tékumel. Now make it YOUR Tékumel.

I think this is good advice for a referee making use of any published setting, but it's especially so for Tékumel, whose idiosyncrasies are many. Trying to get every detail right and never deviating from every jot and tittle of its diffuse canon would be a Herculean task and, ultimately, a Quixotic one. That's why I decided early in the House of Worms campaign not to get too hung up on such matters. My goal was a fun roleplaying experience for everyone involved and achieving that often meant adding, subtracting, and otherwise altering previously established material about Tékumel. 

I'll get into more specifics in Part II of this post next week. With luck, it won't be too "inside baseball" in its content and readers without much knowledge of Tékumel will also find it useful. 

Campaign Updates: Black Box

Barrett's Raiders

This week saw the characters finally cross the Atlantic (with a brief stop at Lajes in the Azores for refueling), arriving at "Naval Station Norfolk" on 3 December 2000. I used scare quotes, because their destination was located not at Norfolk proper – which took a 1 MT nuke in November 1997 – but rather at Newport News on the other side of the James River. Though the US Military Emergency Administration (USMEA, the acronym used by the military government) had made efforts to rebuild portions of the original station, it was still too irradiated for long-term human habitation, hence the relocation. Plus, both Langley AFB and Fort Eustis were nearby, as well as the National Defense Reserve Fleet ("Ghost Fleet") of inactive naval vessels.

Once in Virginia, the members of Barrett's Raiders were processed and given barracks prior to being interviewed, as per the directives of Operation Resolute. Because of they'd impressed General Hawthorne in West Germany, he asked USMEA Command to make every effort to keep the characters together as a single unit. They clearly possessed unique skills that could serve USMEA well in the anarchy of post-war America. For that reason, they were interviewed together by Captain Daniel Callahan, whom the characters immediately suspected of being their "handler" (or commissar, as former Soviet doctor Vadim later called him). He filled them in on the current situation in Virginia, as well as recent efforts by USMEA to deal with local threats. 

Callahan explained that his superiors wanted to keep Barrett's Raiders together as "Military Liaison Group 7," operating with a high degree of autonomy as force multipliers for local groups in the Delaware/Maryland/Virginia (Delmarva) region who are attempting to rebuild. If they were amenable to this arrangement, he tasked them with traveling to Fort Meade, Maryland, where a former official of the pre-war government had established a safe area and was looking for assistance. Though nominally aligned with the "unrecognized civilian authority" in Omaha, the official needed all the help he could get. Callahan explained that, if the characters can assist him, it'd go a long way toward helping to bridge the gap between USMEA and their rivals. After brief discussion, the characters agreed, thereby accepting continued service with the US Army.

Dolmenwood

Having reached the Shadholme Lodge and the camp that grew up around it in anticipation of the Hlerribuck festival, the characters spent much time settling in. They soon discovered that the Hlerribuck had attracted people from across Dolmenwood, including people whom they knew. Sir Clement encountered Sidley Fraggleton, a childhood friend, who was engaged to another friend, Celenia Candleswick. Celenia's father, Sir Jappser, didn't think much of Sidley (or Clement for that matter), which is why Sidley was glad to hide from him in the company of Clement and his comrades. For their part, the rest of the characters mostly ignored Sidley as they went about their own business.

Part of that business involved Falin being impressed into service as the temporary vicar of the memorial chapel set up on the grounds of the Lodge. Apparently, the priest who was expected to be here, Father Dobey, was nowhere to be found and many of those who'd traveled to the festival required the services of a cleric. Falin reluctantly agreed to this and set herself up in the chapel – which Sidley promptly claimed as his "sanctuary" from Sir Jappser and his brutish friend, Shank Weavilman – and began tending to a number of odd folk who happened by.

While in the chapel, Alvie found a dusty key on the floor. This led him and Marid to begin looking around the place, assuming that the key must be for a lock in the church itself. After a while, they discovered a keyhole at the base of the chapel's altar. When used, the key unlocked the altar itself, which could be slid to one side, revealing a dark shaft into the earth, complete with a set of rungs leading downwards. Locking the chapel doors, Alvie descended some 20 feet down before discovering a door, on the other side of which he heard Breggle voices. He climbed back up and reported what he saw and heard. The characters decided this was worthy of investigation, but it would have to wait until nightfall, lest they draw too much attention to their activities.

House of Worms

The day of Kirktá's presentation to the city of Béy Sü and, by extension, the entire Empire of Tsolyánu, as a declared heir of the now-deceased Emperor Hirkáne was finally upon the characters. The festivities began early, with food and entertainment in the courtyards of the Golden Bough clanhouse. This was intended for members of the lower clans, while the high clans would partake of refreshments inside. It was inside that Kirktá, attired in the garb of an imperial prince, would receive his visitors, well-wishers, and rivals. The characters had made an effort to advertise the party widely and had specifically invited other known heirs to come and meet their newly revealed (half-)brother.

Prince Eselné sent his regrets, saying that he was "needed elsewhere." Prince Dhich'uné said the same, but promised to send someone in his place, with "a suitable gift." The gift was a large black box, borne by four slaves, and presented by Jayárgo hiKhánmu, a priest of Sárku of long association with Dhich'uné. Jayárgo was polite and respectful and explained that the box contained "something most precious" and would aid Kirktá in achieving his destiny. Naturally, this frightened Kirktá, who felt that, whatever it contained, it might serve as a catalyst for breaking down the mind-bar placed on his memories years ago. Rather than risk that, he had the box sent away to a safe place and planned to view its contents later.

Throughout the evening, Kirktá met several other people of significance, most notably Princess Ma'ín, who arrived with great fanfare. Her arrival attracted a lot of attention away from Kirktá, for which he was somewhat grateful. Ma'ín's chat with Kirktá was laden with subtle – and not so subtle – innuendo about his future. By comparison, Prince Táksuru was straightforward in his interactions, urging Kirktá to stay out of "the game" and promising him and his companions rewards if he did so. Prince Rereshqála, meanwhile, explained that he had hoped to avoid entering the Choosing of the Emperors himself, but that he would gladly do so if it meant ensuring Dhich'uné did not become emperor. He further suggested that all the other heirs might need to work together toward this one end. He then departed and said they would speak again soon.

The Articles of Dragon: "Even Orcish is Logical"

I've been fascinated with languages and alphabets since I was a young child. Consequently, when I discovered roleplaying games in late 1979, it didn't take me long to start including snatches of made-up languages and scripts into my games. By the time I'd created my Emaindor campaign in high school, I was ready to try my hand at a full-on constructed language – which I, in fact, did, complete with a script imagined for me by a friend of mine in college. That language, Emânic, wasn't very good, as conlangs go, but I was nevertheless pleased with myself and used it primarily for place names in certain regions of the setting.

A major catalyst in my decision to do this were articles in Dragon, especially the pair that appeared in issue #75 (July 1983), the first of which I'll discuss in this post. Entitled "Even Orcish is Logical" and written by Clyde Heaton (who'd previously written another inspirational language article), it offered excellent practical and theoretical advice to the novice constructor of fantasy languages. That's important and big reason why the articles in this issue had such an impact on me: they were more than high-minded musings about language; they provided lots of advice and examples on how to make your own languages.

In the case of "Even Orcish is Logical," Heaton spent a lot of time talking about the "feel" of a language, from its sounds to its grammatical constructions to its vocabulary. His thoughts would probably not pass muster with actual linguists, but that was beside the point. Heaton was providing useful guidance to referees who wanted to make languages that are suitable for use in RPG campaigns rather than ones that could withstand the scrutiny of professional academics. So, for example, Heaton notes that the Orcish language, which he uses as is his example, has "mostly harsh, guttural sounds." While he attempts to ground this in something "real" – the protruding fangs and tusks of the Orcish mouth – that's not his main concern. Rather, it's that the Orcish language sounds "right" for the language of savage humanoid enemies in Dungeons & Dragons.

Heaton opts for a similar approach when looking at the grammar of Orcish. Orcs are not a refined people, so the grammar of their language is simple and direct. Again, this approach wouldn't stand up to careful study by a scholar of languages, but it works well enough for fantasy RPGs. At least, that's the lesson I took from it: establish a frame or lens through which to imagine the language you're planning to create and then make decisions about its sounds, grammar, and vocabulary that fit that frame or lens. Unless you're very dedicated and want to follow in the footsteps of Tolkien, this is a reasonable way to proceed, I think. Heaton also points out that there's no need to create an extensive vocabulary for game purposes, since even real languages use only a very small number of words for everyday communication. The number needed in a RPG are probably even smaller. This is important to point out, particularly to readers like my youthful self, who might otherwise have spent weeks or months coming up with words for all sorts of things I'd never need for my campaign.

"Even Orcish is Logical" is a terrific article, one of my favorites from the period when I was reading Dragon regularly. When paired with the other language article from the same issue (about which I'll write next week), it played a significant role in my development as a referee and roleplayer more generally. Re-reading it filled me with a lot of memories and good feelings from that summer just before I started high school. It was a frightening but heady time for me, as I made a transition from one stage of my life to another. Having RPGs and magazines like Dragon available to me made it much less scary than it otherwise might have been and, for that, I'll always be grateful.

Where Did You Buy Your First Tabletop RPG?

(This is a repost, because I am an idiot. I thought I'd included "bookstore" as an option, but obviously didn't. I am now reposting the poll with that option. My apologies to those of you who previously voted. You may now do so again.)

For this week's poll, let me offer a few clarifications. First and most importantly, I'm asking this question about the very first tabletop RPG you bought for yourself and owned, not played. In some cases, these may be different. I want to know about the very roleplaying game for which you had a personal copy. Second, if you didn't buy your first RPG yourself but were given it as a gift, there is an option for that in the poll. Please use it, because I am curious to know how common it was to give roleplaying games as gifts.

For the five main options, I chose places of business that I can recall selling RPGs during my youth. I have undoubtedly neglected to include some possibilities. If you bought your first tabletop roleplaying game somewhere I didn't specifically mention, please choose "Other" and explain your answer in the comments. I'd love to know about some of the more unusual places where RPGs have been sold over the years. 

Rules, Rules, and More Rules

I'm currently refereeing three different campaigns at the moment: House of Worms, using Empire of the Petal Throne; Barrett's Raiders, using the Free League edition of Twilight: 2000; and Dolmenwood, using the rules of the same name. Of the three, only two – EPT and Dolmenwood – can be called "old school" in the usual sense of the term, though T2K has a lot in common with many old school games, specifically its focus on hexcrawling and resource management. That said, I wouldn't really call Twilight: 2000 "old school" without some big caveats. That's no knock against it, since my players and I have been enjoying ourselves with it for more than three years now, but I think it's important to note these things, particularly in light of the topic of this post.

Empire of the Petal Throne is a very early RPG. Released in 1975, it's a close cousin to OD&D in terms of rules, meaning that it's not very mechanically complex. Dolmenwood is a little bit heftier, being largely derived from Moldvay/Cook Dungeons & Dragons (1981), itself a clarification and expansion of OD&D. Twilight: 2000 (2021) uses a variation of Free League's "Year Zero" rules, versions of which can be found in most of the company's games, like Forbidden Lands or Vaesen. The T2K variant is a bit more complex than the others, owing to its inclusion of modern firearms and vehicles.

In each campaign, I rarely use the game's rules as written. I don't mean that I've introduced lots of house rules (though I have in a few cases). I mean that I often ignore the rules. When playing, I often don't want to slow down the flow of the session by having to refer to a rulebook or a chart. Instead, I prefer to rely on my memory and that of the players, which means that we're more likely to strictly apply those that we remember than those we don't. I call these kinds of rules "sticky" rules, because they stick in your memory. 

One of the reasons I prefer old school RPGs like D&D is that I find their rules much stickier than those of newer games. To some extent, that's simply a function of familiarity. I've been playing D&D and Traveller for more than four decades; I know them almost like the back of my hand. I lack this familiarity with games I learned more recently. On the other hand, there's no question that most older roleplaying games are much more mechanically simple than those that came later. Again, this is a generalization and there are plenty of counterexamples. My point is that, as both a referee and a player, I'm much more comfortable with fewer and simpler rules, since I'm much more likely to remember and, therefore, use them.

But, as I already noted, even in games like EPT or Dolmenwood, I regularly handwave or outright ignore rules in the heat of play. For example, Empire of the Petal Throne includes spell failure rules. Depending on a character's level, psychic ability, and the type of spell, there's a chance a spell might not function. At mid to higher levels, this chance is minute, but there's still a chance of failure. Despite this, I don't always make the players roll, since there are many occasions when I feel it unnecessary or disruptive to the flow of the action. I defer to my own judgment here rather than the rules and the players have never complained. Were they to do so, I wouldn't hesitate to use the rules as written, but I like to think that, after a decade of play, we've built up enough trust that that no players worries much about how I'd adjudicate in-game situations.

I think about this question a lot, because many aspects of the new Twilight: 2000 rules, chiefly the combat system, are more complex than I like. There's nothing wrong with them and, by many measures, they're much simpler than the original GDW T2K combat rules. However, I'm not fond of them and I frequently dispense with many persnickety aspects of them in the interests of speed and simplicity. Again, the players rare complain about this and accept my judgments. Had I the ability to start this campaign over again, I might have opted for simpler, more straightforward rules, but, after more than three years, it's too late for that, so we muddle through. 

That's more or less where I am with rules these days: when give the option, I prefer simple, even simplistic, rules over more elaborate and complex ones. I'm not opposed to trying to model complicated situations and activities mechanically and, under the right circumstances, could even find that enjoyable. However, as a referee running a weekly game over the course of many years, I have come to find that rules I can't keep in my head without recourse to a book or a chart or a table don't hold a lot of appeal for me anymore. Consequently, my latest drafts of the rules for Secrets of sha-Arthan are decidedly much simpler than earlier ones. It's yet another way that my experiences as a referee have colored my own design work – and for the better, I hope.

Hope Among the Ruins

Owing to scheduling conflicts, my Barrett's Raiders Twilight: 2000 campaign didn't meet this week. While we've striven to meet every week over the course of the three years and three months we've been playing, such hiccups aren't uncommon. Still, I can't deny I was a little bit disappointed, because this week would have been the first session in the campaign to take place on American shores. After three years of war on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, the characters are finally home. 

The reason I was disappointed is that playing Twilight: 2000 in post-war America is something I've wanted to do since the late 1980s. In a very real sense, bringing Barrett's Raiders to this point is the culmination of a nearly forty(!) year-old dream of mine. Back when I originally played T2K, I only owned the first four adventure modules – The Free City of Krakow, Pirates of the Vistula, The Ruins of Warsaw, and The Black Madonna. These are all set in Poland, so my campaigns stayed in Eastern Europe rather than venturing elsewhere. 

Clearly, though, GDW had a great interest in seeing Twilight: 2000 characters return to the USA. After 1986's Going Home, the company produced nine modules set in America. With the exception of the first, Red Star, Lone Star, which dealt with a Soviet-backed Mexican invasion of Texas – think Red Dawn but a little more grounded – the modules were all notable for their focus on rebuilding the country after the nuclear strikes of 1997 and the chaos that followed. 

Granted, the modules still offered plenty of opportunities for violent mayhem, but it was generally directed toward opportunistic warlords and authoritarian New America cells, forces that need to be swept away before any kind of rebuilding might be possible. And while MilGov and CivGov are most definitely at odds with one another, neither side is demonized or reduced to a caricature. It's a messy situation that creates lots of scope for interesting situations and scenarios.

And that's what most excites me about Barrett's Raiders finally making the transition to the Not-So-United States of America. As American soldiers brought home from Europe by the US Military Emergency Administration, the characters are put in a difficult situation: continue to obey the Joint Chiefs despite their extra-constitutional assumption of authority or put themselves at odds with their former comrades in arms. It's a situation made all the more complicated by the equally dodgy authority of President Broward and the reconstituted Congress – to say nothing of the threat of New America and others taking advantage of the breakdown in civil society.

Twilight: 2000 got a reputation in some circles as an immoral power fantasy RPG that made light of the deaths of millions in nuclear war. I think only the most superficial reading of either the game or (especially) its adventure modules could support such a false conclusion. This is most definitely not a game about reveling in the collapse of civilization but rather one where the characters can actively participate in helping to reconstruct that civilization. As campaign frames go, that's a truly worthy one in my opinion, one I've wanted to explore with some friends for decades. Now that I'm finally getting the chance to do so, my enthusiasm is high. Expect increased posting about Twilight: 2000 and the events of the Barrett's Raiders campaign. 

Retrospective: The Complete Book of Elves

By the early 1990s, AD&D 2nd Edition was in full swing, and one of its defining features was the proliferation of entries in the Player's Handbook Rules Supplement (PHBR) series, commonly called the Complete books. These were player-focused supplements initially aimed at expanding the options for various classes that were eventually expanded to other topics, including races. The series is mixed bag, with most volumes following in the footsteps of The Complete Fighter’s Handbook – solid and unremarkable. However, a few stand out for how bad they were, The Complete Book of Elves, published in 1993, being my candidate for the worst (feel free to nominate your own in the comments).

Written by Colin McComb, The Complete Book of Elves is, at its core, an expansion of the already-powerful elf race in AD&D. But whereas earlier material presented elves as skilled but balanced adventurers with unique strengths and weaknesses, this book instead leans hard into the idea that elves are just better –smarter, faster, more artistic, more magical, more attuned to nature, and, of course, longer-lived – than virtually every other playable race in the game.

This emphasis is the start of where the book runs into trouble. It doesn’t just provide players with more options for elven characters; it actively reinforces an attitude of elven superiority, sometimes to an absurd degree. Take, for example, this passage:

No elf will ever simply perform a function when he can do it with flair and style. If a human forges a sword, he creates a piece of metal that cuts and slashes. If an elf forges a sword, he creates a masterpiece of balance, beauty, and power.

That's more or less the tone of the entire book. Elves are naturally superior to humans and other races in virtually every way that matters. Their weapons are better, their magic is more refined, their civilization more enlightened, their senses sharper, their emotions deeper. Even their music is better! 

If it were merely a matter of tone, The Complete Book of Elves would simply be remembered as insufferable. However, the book follows suit with its rules expansions as well and this, in my opinion, is where it reaches a new level of egregiousness. The new elven kits, which are supposed to offer distinct roleplaying options, tend to be overloaded with benefits and underweighted on drawbacks. The bladesinger, for instance, is a combat-ready spellcaster with virtually no downside beyond its limitation to one weapon. The wilderness runner is an elf so in tune with nature that he can literally run faster than a horse. Even some of the purported elven disadvantages, like the elves' reluctance to use heavy armor, are framed as virtues rather than limitations.

It’s not as if the book is poorly written. McComb has a decent grasp of language and some of the information he presents, particularly concerning elven philosophy and their approach to magic, is interesting. However, it is so unbalanced in its portrayal of elves that it feels almost like a work of in-game propaganda rather than a neutral sourcebook. I don't think that was McComb's intention, but, even if it were, I think he went a bit overboard in his approach. I distinctly recall that, during the '90s, The Complete Book of Elves was the butt of frequent jokes by all but the most dedicated elf fanboys. In my local group, we referred to it as "The Complete Book of Gods," because of its overpowered kits and supercilious prose.

Despite this, The Complete Book of Elves still holds some interest today, if only from a historical perspective. It's an artifact of a time when AD&D was leaning much more heavily into the "story" or "narrative" approach that was pioneered almost a decade earlier in Dragonlance. The book has less concern for mechanical balance than it does for presenting a nonhuman race in sufficient detail for maximum player immersion. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing – I'm a longtime fan of Roger E. Moore's "Point of View" series in Dragon, for example – but I can't help but feel as the racial Complete books, especially this one, go too far in this direction. 

Ultimately, I think The Complete Book of Elves serves as an object lesson in the dangers of overindulging a single race or concept in a game. I prefer it when a supplement expands options, not elevates one choice as obviously better than all the others. Based on my undoubtedly biased experience, this book simply exacerbated an existing problem: players already drawn to elves didn’t need more reasons to see them as superior. It's a flawed and indulgent book, worth a read only if you want a window into some of the worst tendencies of TSR and AD&D during the early to mid-1990s. 

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "The Nine Hells (Part I)"

(The original post appeared here.)

And so we come, once again, to an excellent article written by Ed Greenwood – "The Nine Hells, Part I," which appeared in issue #75 (July 1983) of Dragon. In retrospect, it's easy to see why Greenwood would enjoy such success; he was not only prolific but also imaginative. Plus, his articles were memorable. Even now, nearly three decades later, I clearly remember the first time I read this issue of Dragon, filled as it was with information about the lower planes, thanks to both Gary Gygax's extensive preview of new devils from the upcoming Monster Manual II and the first part of Ed Greenwood's tour of the first five layers of AD&D's version of Hell. I was absolutely blown away by what I read, much to the chagrin of my players at the time, several of whom found themselves on unexpected visits to the domains of one or more arch-devils.

Like Roger E. Moore's "The Astral Plane," "The Nine Hells, Part I" is a work of remarkable scholarship, mining the entirety of the AD&D corpus available at the time for hints as to what the planes of Hell might be like. Also like "The Astral Plane," this article wasn't content to simply regurgitate what we already knew. Rather, it expanded on that information in clever and sometimes surprising ways, painting a picture of the Nine Hells that was both true to its gaming source material but also evocative of other works of fantasy and myth. Greenwood doesn't present his Nine Hells as canonical for anything other than his own Forgotten Realms campaign, but it wasn't long before it received Gygax's blessing, which gave it a status it enjoyed until comparatively recently, where books as recent as 2006's Fiendish Codex II: Tyrants of the Nine Hells continued to make use of ideas laid down in 1983. That's a degree of influence that few articles (or authors) can match.

In addition to giving names to each of the Nine Hells and discussing their locales and points of interest, Greenwood also devotes a fair bit of space to their inhabitants, in particular unique devils. Prior to this issue of Dragon, the arch-devils were the only unique devils described in AD&D. Now, both Gygax and Greenwood provided a coterie of such personalities, which, as a referee, I found a terrific boon. Unique devils gave me the opportunity to pit the PCs against powerful devils that weren't rulers of entire planes. This not only gave the PCs a fighting chance to defeat them but, in the event that the PCs did defeat them, the multiverse wouldn't resound with their victory the way it might if they bested Dispater or Geryon. Greenwood also found a way to work Astaroth from "The Politics of Hell" (from issue #28) into his depiction of the Nine Hells, which I know endeared him to many older gamers of my acquaintance who adored Alex von Thorn's article from way back when.

"The Nine Hells, Part I" (and its sequel, which I may well wind up discussing next time) are in a rare class of Dragon article: ones I actually used. Ever since I started playing AD&D, I desperately wanted to run adventures in the Outer Planes, but I rarely did, in large part because the game gave so little information on them. That's why articles like this and "The Astral Plane" were so useful and inspiring to me. And, unlike "The Astral Plane," Greenwood's Nine Hells articles were remarkably concrete, describing people and places one could encounter in addition to providing rules for how magic worked differently in this plane of ultimate Lawful Evil. I liked that a lot; I still do.

Musings on Poll Results (Part II)

With two more polls closed, let's take a look at the results, starting with when were you first introduced to roleplaying games? When I posted this poll on March 3,  my initial guess was that most of my regular readers were introduced to tabletop RPGs sometime between 1979 and 1983. As you can see, my prediction was very close to the truth.

The period between 1980 and 1982, corresponding to the tail end of the Holmes Basic Set's run and the launch of Moldvay/Cook accounted for just shy of one-third of all votes, while 1977–1979 accounts for nearly one-fifth. Taken together, they represent almost one-half of respondents. Interestingly, the period between 1983 and 1985, during which the Mentzer's BECM boxed sets were released (I didn't appear until 1986) is a close third. Altogether, then, the nine-year period between 1977 and 1985 represents two-thirds of those who voted.

The fourth place period of 2000+ is worthy of separate mention. Though only 10.66% of respondents chose this option, it's still larger than the other remaining options. This proves, I think, that Third Edition was a consequential edition of Dungeons & Dragons, one that introduced a lot of people into the hobby who have continued to participate in it. Though 3e is far from my favorite edition of the game, I also think it gets a much worse reputation in old school circles than it deserves. (As an aside, I think it's even more notable that the reign of 2e seems to have garnered so few votes, but perhaps that's just a quirk of my readership.)

The next poll, which originally appeared on March 10, asked: how old were you when you first started playing tabletop RPGs? My prediction was that the winning answer would be somewhere in the 10 to 14 age range – and I was correct.

A little less than three-quarters of all correspondents chose either 9–11 or 12–14, with the latter winning by just two votes. This doesn't really surprise me. Most of the roleplayers I met in my youth were within a year or two of my own age – I started in late '79, having just turned 10. What does surprise me, though, is how much smaller than other age cohorts are, especially the 18–20 and 21+ categories, both of which are smaller than the 6–8 category. As ever, that may simply be a quirk of my readership, who largely seem to be middle-aged men who were born in the late '60s to early '70s. Even so, I remember older guys who roleplayed, like my friend's high school-aged older brother, for instance, and the college kids who hung around hobby shops. Where are they now?

Was Your First Tabletop RPG Dungeons & Dragons?

We've got a very simple poll this week: was your first tabletop RPG Dungeons & Dragons? I suspect that the vast majority of people who read this blog entered the hobby through D&D, but I'm nevertheless curious about the number who didn't. If you answered "no," please use the comments to indicate the tabletop RPG that was your first instead and, if you can recall, the year when you first played it. I'm very curious about the other games that might have served as gateways to roleplaying and when they did so.