Descent into Madness

As I've noted on more than a few occasions, I have, in addition to face-to-face gaming, been playing in and refereeing several different RPGs via Google+ Hangouts. If anyone among my readership hasn't already given this a whirl, you really ought to, because it's a lot of fun. These days, it certainly seems as if the center of gravity in the old school world has shifted to G+, due in no small part to the exceedingly large numbers of games being run there. This hobby, after all, is about playing games, not merely talking about them and, as I said, there are a lot of games for every taste being run on Google+.

Among the games I'm playing is Dungeon Crawl Classics Role Playing Game, refereed by the awesome Shawn Sanford. Among my fellow adventurers are the equally awesome Jason Sholtis and Will Douglas, though we've recently had an influx of several more stalwart souls to add to our company. That not only improves our chances of survival but also the fun. One of the many lessons Google+ has taught me is that roleplaying with only two or three players is a pale imitation of what it's like to play with six or more players. My online Dwimmermount sessions, for example, typically have at least six players and I've sometimes had as many as eight. Yes, it requires a bit more coordination to deal with the presence of so many players, but it more than repays the effort in terms of dynamism and chaotic creativity.

Back before DCC RPG was released, I remember that one of the big knocks against the game was that it used "too many dice" and had "too many charts." Having actually been playing the game for months now, I can honestly say that neither of the critiques holds much water. In play, one only uses a few dice types or charts at any given time and, as time goes on, their use becomes second nature. Moreover, the presence of these dice types and charts adds a lot of delightful unpredictability to play, so much so that I found myself thinking (as I often do) that what many RPGs need is more, not less randomness.

As it happens, Shawn Sanford is a huge Rolemaster aficionado, having used that system for years with great success. He's also currently involved in Iron Crown Enterprise's open playtest of the next iteration of this venerable game system. Consequently, we often talk about Rolemaster, a game with which my past experience has been decidedly mixed, but that, I freely admit, I've long been intrigued by. So, I've been slowly acquiring some of the old Rolemaster products I remember from the early '80s and examining them, not so much with an eye toward actually playing the game -- though I wouldn't shy away from doing so if an experienced referee made himself available (hint, hint) -- but in order to get a less biased understanding of it.

As I've noted before, "old school" is not synonymous with "rules lite" and we do the larger hobby a disservice when we talk as if it were. For that reason, expect to see more musings on some of the more complex RPGs of the '70s and '80s, since they're very much on my mind these days.

Comments on this post can be made here.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Black Stone

Robert E. Howard is most well known for his swords-and-sorcery yarns, particularly those in which Conan the Cimmerian is the protagonist, but the truth is that REH was a multi-talented writer, who penned tales in a variety of genres, including horror. Among his horror tales, several stand out as worthy of attention, "The Black Stone" being one of them.

First published in the November 1931 issue of Weird Tales (the same issue also contains Clark Ashton Smith's The Tale of Satampra Zeiros), "The Black Stone" is nowadays considered a Cthulhu Mythos story, since it's quite clearly an homage to and inspired by the writings of Howard's friend and colleague, H.P. Lovecraft. Both its structure and content clearly owe a great deal to Lovecraft, right down to its being the first-person account of a nameless narrator relating his brush with eldritch horrors man was not meant to know.

The story begins, as so many Mythos tales do, with a book, in this case Nameless Cults of Von Junzt:

I read of it first in the strange book of Von Junzt, the German eccentric who lived so curiously and died in such grisly and mysterious fashion. It was my fortune to have access to his Nameless Cults in the original edition, the so-called Black Book, published in Dusseldorf in 1839, shortly before a hounding doom overtook the author. Collectors of rare literature were familiar with Nameless Cults mainly through the cheap and faulty translation which was pirated in London by Bridewall in 1845, and the carefully expurgated edition put out by the Golden Goblin Press of New York, 1909. But the volume I stumbled upon was one of the unexpurgated German copies, with heavy black leather covers and rusty iron hasps. I doubt if there are more than half a dozen such volumes in the entire world today, for the quantity issued was not great, and when the manner of the author's demise was bruited about, many possessors of the book burned their volumes in panic.

What is the "it" of which the narrator read in Nameless Cults? The eponymous Black Stone of course.

There among many strange things I found mention of the Black Stone, that curious, sinister monolith that broods among the mountains of Hungary, and about which so many dark legends cluster. Von Junzt did not devote much space to it -- the bulk of his grim work concerns cults and objects of dark worship which he maintained existed in his day, and it would seem that the Black Stone represents some order or being lost and forgotten centuries ago. But he spoke of it as one of the keys -- a phrase used many times by him, in various relations, and constituting one of the obscurities of his work. And he hinted briefly at curious sights to be seen about the monolith on Midsummer's Night. He mentioned Otto Dostmann's theory that this monolith was a remnant of the Hunnish invasion and had been erected to commemorate a victory of Attila over the Goths. Von Junzt contradicted this assertion without giving any refutory facts, merely remarking that to attribute the origin of the Black Stone to the Huns was as logical as assuming that William the Conqueror reared Stonehenge.

Naturally, the narrator decides to investigate the Black Stone for himself and so travels to Hungary to do so firsthand. In the process, he learns a great deal about the history of the region, including the following:

I did find subject for thought in Dornly's Magyar Folklore. In his chapter on "Dream Myths" he mentions the Black Stone and tells of some curious superstitions regarding it -- especially the belief that if anyone sleeps in the vicinity of the monolith, that person will be haunted by monstrous nightmares forever after; and he cited tales of the peasants regarding too-curious people who ventured to visit the Stone on Midsummer Night and who died raving mad because of something they saw there.

It should come as no surprise to long-time that, once he learns this, the intrepid narrator decides to visit the Black Stone on Midsummer Night to observe what truth, if any, lies behind these legends; his efforts are not in vain.

"The Black Stone" is a short, enjoyable read and, while one schooled in the history and culture of the region in which it is ostensibly set would no doubt quibble with Howard's scholarship, it's nevertheless quite effective. It was also surprisingly influential on later Mythos writers, as the story not only introduced Nameless Cults (whose erroneous German title, Unaussprechlichen Kulten, was provided by August Derleth) but also the "mad poet" Justin Geoffrey, whose insanity was the result of his own visit to the Black Stone in advance of the narrator. I think why I'm so fond of this story is that, while it clearly looks to Lovecraft as a model, it's told in a distinctive voice. Howard did not ape HPL as so many other writers of Mythos stories have. Instead, he uses Lovecraft for inspiration and makes "The Black Stone" his own.

Comments on this post can be made here.

All This ... And Faerûnian Lingerie Too

Given my own feelings regarding Dragonlance, it's difficult for me to begrudge anyone who doesn't have much love for the Forgotten Realms. As an official D&D campaign setting, it's been frightfully overexposed since the appearance of its first -- and greatest -- boxed set in 1987. Then there are the novels, many of which are risible even given the rather low bar set by "gaming fiction." So, believe me, I get the dislike, even if I don't share it.

One of the reasons I don't share it is that I was a fan of the Realms (and of Ed Greenwood) for years before TSR decided to canonize the setting. One of the first issues of Dragon I remember buying was issue #62 (June 1982), which included the article "Pages from the Mages." The article caught me completely off-guard, since all it purported to do was describe four famous spellbooks, only one of which (as I recall -- correct me if I'm mistaken) contained unique spells. Yet, Greenwood made these spellbooks interesting by wrapping them in the history and lore of the Forgotten Realms. He showed that you didn't need to make a magical item more powerful mechanically to make it compelling. Instead, you needed to give it a sense of connectedness to the wider world -- one of many lessons he taught me over the years.

It's that sense of connectedness that (for me anyway) has distinguished Greenwood's own Realms work from those of most other writers who've attempted to follow in his wake. It's also why I quite happily picked up my fourth WotC-published book of the year, the unwieldily named Ed Greenwood Presents Elminster's Forgotten Realms. This 192-page hardcover volume is a system-less "peek at the beating heart of the Realms, at what makes it work and seem alive." In practical terms, it's a collection of notes, musings, and memories written by Greenwood, in which he talks about whatever topics most interest him, including, yes, the lingerie of Faerûn (albeit very briefly).

This is a book of pure "fluff," to use the unhappy term in vogue in some quarters, but it's delightfully fun fluff that rather nicely showcases the wild imagination of Greenwood himself. This is, in many ways, one of the most Greenwoodian of all Realms books, since it doesn't need to concern itself with presenting a ready-made adventure or a new spell or monster. Instead, it can focus on all those details, big and small, that Greenwood found himself wanting to talk about. And I can say, as someone who's played in a few scenarios refereed by Ed, that the book does a very good job of bringing the Realms to life in a way that's reflective of the way he runs his sessions. This is "Ed Greenwood Unplugged."

In keeping with that, the book includes scans of Greenwood's original maps and typewritten notes from the old days, along with sidebar commentaries from him in which he reminisces about his home campaign. It's exactly the kind of thing so many of us wish we'd gotten from Gary or Dave -- a look "behind the curtain" of one of the great roleplaying game campaign settings. Whether one likes the Realms or not, it ought to be clear to anyone reading this book that the Forgotten Realms is the fruit of actual play and the product of a quirky, far-ranging creativity. Kudos to WotC for publishing and to Ed for having written it.

Comments on this post can be made here.

Rats!

This weekend, I pulled out my copy of the 1981 version of the Dungeon! board game -- I wrote an article about the game and interviewed its creator, Dave Megarry, a few weeks back, actually -- and sat down to play with my family. We had a lot of fun and it brought back fond memories of my first having played it in late 1979. As long-time readers of this blog no doubt remember, Dungeon! was my gateway to the hobby, which is why I'm encouraged that Wizards of the Coast has recently re-released the game. I think that, as it was for me, this game could serve as an entrée to the hobby for a new generation of gamers.

Anyway, when playing, I chose to be a Hero, one of four adventurer types available for play. "Hero" is, of course, a callback to the old Chainmail-derived OD&D level title (another type is a "Superhero") and, along with Elf, it's one of the weaker options. To compensate for its lesser degree of combat prowess, the Hero also requires less gold to amass in order to achieve victory -- a mere 10,000 gold pieces compared to the Superhero's 20,000 (or the Wizard's 30,000). Consequently, a good strategy if you're playing a Hero or Elf is to stick to the upper levels of the dungeon, where the monsters are weaker.

So, when my Hero was poking about on the 1st Level, what did he encounter?

Best of all? The giant rats were guarding exactly 250 gold pieces. What terrible game design!

Comments on this post can be made here.

Miniatures Forever

While I'm not of the opinion that the rules of Dungeons & Dragons should require the use of miniature figures to play, I do think it'd be a mistake to attempt to sever the game's historical link to their use and the photos throughout this post are a big part of the reason why.

My 10 year-old son, unlike my nearly-13 year-old daughter, has rarely shown much interest in tabletop RPGs. He's much more of a video games kind of kid, like most of his peers, and I've never attempted to strong arm him into the hobby. If he's not interested, he's not interested; such is life. But he loves my Hirst Arts dungeon blocks and miniature figures (yes, many of them are WotC's plastic pre-painted ones -- I know: I'm a bad grognard). Last night, he asked me if I'd mind if he took them out and made (in his words) "a dungeon," which my wife then took photos of.

I remember very well that, as a young gamer, one of the things that most enthused me about gaming was seeing the elaborate dungeon set-ups that the older guys I knew used when they played the game. Likewise, I loved going to hobby shops and ogling the lovingly painted 25mm -- this was in the Dark Ages before "European-style" 28mm was the norm -- miniatures displayed in glass cases for delectation of patrons. Seeing those miniatures was one of several gateways into the hobby.

I mention this because it's fashionable in the larger roleplaying world, including in many parts of the old school community, to deprecate miniature figures, suggesting that they're a thing of the past, like measuring movement in inches, and that "real" RPGs have no use for them. Five years ago, when I started this blog, I might have agreed with such comments. Now, I reject such notions wholeheartedly.

As I said above, I don't want the rules of D&D -- or any RPG for that matter -- to depend on the use of miniatures, but I think we do our hobby a disservice if we treat miniatures as an atavism rather than what they are: a delightful option that can, in the words of Gygax, "add color and life to the game." For a lot of people, miniatures add visual appeal and a degree of groundedness to roleplaying that might otherwise be lacking and there's nothing wrong with such an approach. If, one day, my son does take a serious interest in tabletop RPGs, I have no doubt that it was miniature figures and dungeon tiles that paved the way for it. That's a good thing however you look at it.

Comments on this post can be made here.

Retrospective: Horror on the Hill

Transitional periods in history are of particular interest to me, as one order slowly fades away and another arises to replace it. In the history of Dungeons & Dragons, one such transitional period is what I've called the Electrum Age, between 1981 and 1985, during which the game, the culture that surrounded it, and the company that produced all underwent some pretty radical changes. Released right smack in the middle of this putative Electrum Age was 1983's Horror on the Hill, written by Douglas Niles. The module is intended to be an introductory adventure à la Keep on the Borderlands, but it differs enough from its illustrious predecessor that I think it worth discussing in its own right.

The basic set-up of Horror on the Hill is familiar enough: a party of low-level adventurers comes to Guido's Fort, a lonely bastion of civilization not far from the eponymous Hill, in which dwell numerous monsters and, it is said, an evil witch. That's remarkably similar to the situation presented in Keep on the Borderlands, so much so that I used to be baffled as to why TSR bothered to publish this module at all. What did it offer that Gygax had not already provided in module B2?

I have no way of knowing what the good folks at TSR had in mind when they published this, but, as an outsider, a couple of things stand out about Horror on the Hill. First and foremost, it's new. That may not seem like much, but it is. I often here old schoolers complain when an OSR publisher releases "yet another version of Keep on the Borderlands." I've come to realize that such complaints miss an important point, namely, that there are always new campaigns starting and many of those campaigns will include people who've played B2 numerous times. After a while, referees need something different, even if only slightly, with which to kick things off. That's why I can no longer find fault in an introductory module simply because it follows the basic outline of Keep on the Borderlands and then goes its own way.

The second reason TSR likely released this module was to experiment with its new presentation. Horror on the Hill has slightly updated trade dress (new D&D and TSR logos, for example), more art, and uses a lot of boxed text to aid the novice referee. None of these elements is, in itself, without precedent; you can find other modules that also possess them to varying degrees. But, as a transitional module, they're notable as signposts for what TSR had in store for the D&D game line. Speaking for myself, I really like both the cover art (by the late Jim Roslof) and the interior art by Jim Holloway, both of which evince a strain of fantastic realism that I find much more congenial nowadays than that of other artists of the same period.

The final thing I'd say about Horror on the Hill is that it's a lot more cohesive than Keep on the Borderlands. That is, there are fewer types of monsters in the Hill and their relationships are elaborated upon much more than what we see in the Caves of Chaos. (Paradoxically, Guido's Fort is not given any detail at all -- not even a map -- unlike the Keep from B2). While this gives the Hill a stronger sense of "realism," perhaps even Gygaxian Naturalism, it also makes the place a lot less varied and thus less interesting to players, a great many of whom grow tired if they fight the same creatures over and over again for too long. On the other hand, the Hill does have a rather nifty "end boss" (I feel dirty typing those words) that compares more than favorably with the minotaur in B2.

I judge Horror on the Hill more favorably now than I did back in 1983, when I saw it as little more than a knock-off of Keep on the Borderlands. I think it is that, but I also think it's more than that. Whether its unique qualities are unique enough to appeal to any given referee or player is something only they can answer.

Imagine Magazine: Issue #3

One thing I've been enjoying about Imagine is its cover artwork, which, so far, as has been both attractive and distinctive. There's no mistaking Imagine for Dragon, that's for sure! (Which is no slight against Dragon, which also had some excellent covers over the course of the time during which I read it). My only complaint is that the credits page makes it difficult to determine who the cover artist is. I think this cover was done by Richard Clifton-Day, but I am far from certain of that. Does anyone know?

Issue #3 (June 1983) opens with an editorial that I find interesting.

A few people will, on occasion, complain about something they term 'censorship'. By this they mean that the publication does not carry the obvious references to sex and violence that appear in some other publications. We can assure them that no external body or individual holds censorial powers over the magazine; where we consciously alter or withhold anything, it is because we believe that is what most readers would prefer, if we were able to lay the choice before them. This is a hobby based on fun -- what purpose can there be in offending anybody?

It's an intriguing paragraph, not merely for what is say but what it claims to be responding to. What are these "some other publications" to which it refers and why did anyone, in 1983, think that Imagine was censoring itself? I can't help but think there is some aspect of the UK gaming scene at the time with which I'm not familiar and that might better explain this. Or was it simply a sense that TSR was already beginning to whitewash D&D and its corner of the hobby?

Jim Bambra and Paul Ruiz provide new installments of "The Beginners' Guide to Role Playing Games" and "The Adventures of Nic Novice." Neither is especially noteworthy, being, as you'd expect, discussions of very basic aspects of RPGs without much that'd be deemed insightful nowadays. Roger Musson's "Stirge Corner" elaborates on what it means that RPGs' rules are more open-ended and open to interpretation compared to other types of games. It's basically a primer on trusting the referee and being willing to accept his judgments in matters where the rules are vague or non-existent -- again: solid stuff but not exactly world-shaking.

On the other hand, Noel Williams tackles the thorny question of "Basic or Advanced?" This is a very fascinating article, since it deals head-on with the differences between the two different strains of Dungeons & Dragons. Ultimately, Williams concludes that

The DM in Advanced can add more detail (more monsters, more treasures) but not much in the way of rules or the system becomes unbalanced. On the other hand, because it is so well balanced, new contributions of detail are easy to make ...

With Basic, more is left to the DM. He has greater freedom but less guidance. There is less research for him to do and less to attend to in game, but additional work may be needed to make scenarios credible, and imagination is essential.

I'm not sure I'd have stated this the way that Williams does, but I think he's definitely on to something. While I've met my fair share of Basic rules lawyers and free-form AD&Ders, the general thrusts of the two games, as Gygax stated on more than a couple of occasions, comports with what Williams says above.

Peter Tamlyn's "Tavern Talk" continues to discuss the local gaming scene in the UK. Doug Cowie provides reviews of multiple D&D and AD&D modules (assisted by Jim Bambra and Ian J. Knight). These reviews are, on the whole, quite positive, if not necessarily effusive, so, clearly, at the beginning at least, Imagine didn't go out of its way to promote an independent editorial stance for its own sake. Mike Brunton provides an AD&D adventure called "A Box for the Margrave" for levels 4-7. We also get more official rules answers in "Dispel Confusion," Don Turnbull's editorial about "the Pub Game" about which Gygax often talked, and another "Rubic of Moggedon" comic.

Mike Costello's "The Imagination Machine" is an overview of computer gaming at the time. It's a short but thoughtful pieces that declares

In the end, the success of a computer game is not dependent on programming skill but the quality of the underlying design, and there are fewer good designers than good programmers.

How little has changed in the last three decades!

Dave Pringle reviews several books, including Robert Heinlein's Friday and Stephen R. Donaldson's White Gold Wielder. Dave Langford, whom I first encountered in White Dwarf's own book reviews, pens a fantasy short story called "Too Good to Be." There are also letters, fanzine notices, and another comic, part three of Ian Williamson's "The Sword of Alabron."

Issue #3 is a decent one, though it's clear that Imagine is still finding its feet. I continue to like its references to the hobby side of roleplaying and wish that many of its articles were longer. I've also noticed that there seem to be a great many more advertisements per issue than in Dragon, though it's possible that this is simply because ad space was cheaper. Regardless, I increasingly find myself regretting that I never knew about Imagine back in the day. So far it impresses me and it gives me a different window on what gaming on the other side of the Atlantic was like back in the early '80s.

Demon Mini Pics

Brett Zeleznik of Fractured Dimensions produces some excellent fantasy miniatures that draw on old school esthetics. I'm particularly impressed with his demon figures, perhaps because demons figure prominently in Dwimmermount. So, when Brett sent me photos of the greens for his upcoming Type III demon figure, I knew I'd like to share them.

Those look terrific, don't you think?

Pulp Fantasy Library: Pigeons from Hell

For his creation of Conan the Cimmerian alone -- never mind Kull of Atlantis, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and many others -- Robert E. Howard enjoys a pride of place in the realm of pulp fantasy with which few can compare. Of course, there's an unfortunate flip side to the popularity of Conan and his brethren, namely, Howard's many one-off stories don't get nearly as much attention by contemporary readers. While that's understandable, it's also a pity, since REH wrote a number of excellent short stories that don't belong to any "series,"chief among them "Pigeons from Hell."

"Pigeons from Hell" was published posthumously, in the May 1938 issue of Weird Tales. Unlike so many of Howard's stories, this one is not set in the past, whether real or mythical, but in the present day. It's a horror tale that might well be called a "Southern Gothic" by some, a term that's not inappropriate in most respects. According to Howard, "Pigeons from Hell" had its genesis in a ghost story his grandmother used to tell him, suggesting that it had some basis in genuine folklore. Even if it didn't, it's a remarkably effective short story, one that many fans of REH consider among his finest.

The story begins with two travelers, Griswell and Branner, who, tired of having driven so long across country, decide to do what no one ought to do in a horror story -- spend the night in an abandoned house.

They were tired, sick of bumping and pounding all day over woodland roads. The old deserted house stimulated their imagination with its suggestion of antebellum splendor and ultimate decay. They left the automobile beside the rutty road, and as they went up the winding walk of crumbling bricks, almost lost in the tangle of rank growth, pigeons rose from the balustrades in a fluttering, feathery crowd and swept away with a low thunder of beating wings.

Some time after the pair settle down to sleep, Branner hears a strange, whistling noise coming from upstairs and decides to investigate. Worried, Griswell listens intently as his companion walks slowly up the stairs:

Griswell heard the stairs creaking under Branner's measured tread. Now he had reached the hallway
above, for Griswell heard the clump of his feet moving along it. Suddenly the footfalls halted, and the whole night seemed to hold its breath. Then an awful scream split the stillness, and Griswell started up, echoing the cry.

The strange paralysis that had held him was broken. He took a step toward the door, then checked himself. The footfalls were resumed. Branner was coming back. He was not running. The tread was even more deliberate and measured than before. Now the stairs began to creak again. A groping hand, moving along the balustrade, came into the bar of moonlight; then another, and a ghastly thrill went through Griswell as he saw that the other hand gripped a hatchet—a hatchet which dripped blackly. Was that Branner who was coming down that stair?

Yes! The figure had moved into the bar of moonlight now, and Griswell recognized it. Then he saw Branner's face, and a shriek burst from Griswell's lips. Branner's face was bloodless, corpse-like; gouts of blood dripped darkly down it; his eyes were glassy and set, and blood oozed from the great gash which cleft the crown of his head!

Unsurprisingly, Griswell flees the house in fear and fortunately comes across Buckner, the sheriff, who was riding home late after delivering a prisoner to a neighboring county. In a panic, Griswell explains what happened and, while somewhat skeptical, Buckner is willing to consider the possibility that there is some truth in what he saw, since the house Griswell and Branner visited was Blassenville Manor. As a traveler, Griswell has never heard of the Blassenvilles.

"Who were the Blassenvilles?" asked Griswell, shivering.

"They owned all this land here. French-English family. Came here from the West Indies before the Louisiana Purchase. The Civil War ruined them, like it did so many. Some were killed in the War; most of the others died out. Nobody's lived in the Manor since 1890 when Miss Elizabeth Blassenville, the last of the line, fled from the old house one night like it was a plague spot, and never came back to it ..."

From there, the story turns toward investigation, as the sheriff follows up Griswell's claims and, in the process, reveals to the reader a great deal more about the terrible history of the Blassenvilles. I won't say any more about the plot or the central mystery of "Pigeons from Hell," since I don't want to spoil it for those who've never read it before. However, I will offer up another quote from the story that provides some insights into the nature of the story.

He had thought of the South as a sunny, lazy land washed by soft breezes laden with spice and warm blossoms, where life ran tranquilly to the rhythm of black folk singing in sunbathed cottonfields. But now he had discovered another, unsuspected side—a dark, brooding, fear-haunted side, and the discovery repelled him.

The story is well-done and genuinely scary at times. It was dramatized in 1961 as an episode of the anthology series, Thriller, hosted by Boris Karloff. You can see the whole episode below. It's rather well done and, sadly, is one of the most faithful adaptations of Robert E. Howard's works into a TV show or movie.

Open Friday: Batteries Not Included

When I was younger, I used a lot of pre-packaged adventure modules with the RPGs I played with my friends. One of the things I appreciated about them is that, if they introduced a new monster or magic item or whatever, they included the game stats for it at the back of the product. Come to think of it, that was generally how new "stuff" got introduced into RPGs. There were exceptions, of course. For example, Gary Gygax's module, The Forgotten Temple of Tharizdun, uses a lot of monsters from the Fiend Folio, so, if you want to play that module to its fullest, you need a copy of the FF. Likewise, Isle of the Ape uses spells and magic items from Unearthed Arcana and more or less expects that the referee owns and is using that book in his campaign if he wishes to run the module.

How do you feel about this? At what point is it too onerous to expect that a referee owns a particular supplementary work? Should adventure modules include everything not included in the main rulebook for the benefit of those who don't own anything else or is it reasonable to assume that most players own the latest releases?