Campaign Updates: Two for the Road

That "real life" thing that I'm sure everyone has heard of does indeed exist and it's been keeping me busy over the last few weeks. It's apparently been doing the same thing to a lot of my players, too, hence my current campaigns have convened fewer times than I had hoped. Nevertheless, we did play several sessions of both Barrett's Raiders and House of Worms. Dolmenwood, alas, remains in a brief stasis; with luck, it will resume this week. In the meantime, here's the latest news from both Fort Lee, Virginia and Béy Sü, Tsolyánu:

Barrett's Raiders

Armed with Specialist Huxley's confession, Major Hunter decided that now was the time to approach both Lt. Nolan Bennett in logistics, along with his superior, Captain Reginald Tolen. She started with Bennett, who attempted to obfuscate the issues at hand, claiming that any irregularities could be chalked up to simple "clerical error" and the stress of trying to operate a military base "under difficult conditions." Hunter then confronted him with what Huxley told her, which cause Bennett to take a different tack. He admitted that Tolen probably had a hand in what's happening, but assured her that it's because "the captain's a good guy" who's "just trying to help people anyway he can." There's nothing sinister in it and it'd be a mistake to expose Tolen, since it'd probably land him in the stockade.

Hunter suspected this still wasn't the whole truth. She used other evidence she'd collected from paperwork and reports to demonstrate that Bennett himself must have been involved too. Bennett made a few more attempts to weasel out of these accusations before admitting that, yes, he'd used both Tolen and Huxley for his own betterment. He'd been contacted by a New America adherent who made him an offer: funnel war materiel from Fort Lee to him and he'd ensure that, when the time came, Bennett would be given a meal ticket and a position of safety "out west." Bennett claimed he didn't care about New America's ideology, only that he had a future. "Look around. Open your eyes. USMEA doesn't have what it takes to put this country back together again. I decided to back the winner."

When confronted with these facts, Captain Tolen was appalled. He openly admitted that, yes, he had made arrangements, through Bennett, to send "extra" supplies to civilian communities in need of them – but he swore he did not authorize the sending of war materiel to anyone, let alone New America. He felt betrayed, though he made no bones about the fact that he was ultimately to blame for this situation. Tolen took full responsibility and offered to turn himself in to the Provost Marshal, Colonel Kearns. Major Hunter said that she would speak to Kearns first, but, in the meantime, he and Bennett would be placed under guard.

Kearns was not surprised to learn that Tolen was involved. He said that the captain was a "naive bleeding heart" but not a bad a man. Fort Lee owed a lot to his work to keep it together, but that did not excuse his "reckless" behavior. Ultimately, though, the fault lay with General Summers, the base commander, who "cared more about looking good for Norfolk than doing his job." Summers, he explained, was a desk general, who had never seen combat and now, with all the soldiers returning from Europe, was worried he might be replaced "by someone with actual military experience." Summers always preferred to paper over problems rather than deal with them.

Hunter confirmed some of what Kearns claimed when she and Lt. Col. Orlowski presented MLG-7's report directly to Summers. The general praised them for getting to the bottom of the problem and that they had done so quietly. Summers then said that they were probably keen to leave Fort Lee and continue on their journey. He asked several times when they planned to leave and if there were anything his office could do to speed them on their way. This suggested that Col. Kearns had been correct in his assessment of the general: he wanted to be sure no one in Norfolk got wind of this serious breach of security that had happened under his watch.

Hunter and Orlowski explained they'd be leaving tomorrow, which pleased Summers. He thanked them again and sent them on their way. Of course, Spc. Huxley was scheduled to make another supply run the next day, too. Now that he had been found out, New America would realize something had happened and they might change up their local operations. That didn't sit well with Hunter and Orlowski, who decided that, as part of the departure the next day, MLG-7 would look into this dangling thread personally.

House of Worms

The characters made their way to a safe location known to him through Nebússa's contacts in the Omnipotent Azure Legion. There, they took stock of the artifacts Míru had left for Kirktá and opened the chest of the topaz god to remove the priest of the One Other they'd place in stasis there. Normally, a living being struck by the beam of an excellent ruby eye is held in suspended animation unharmed until he is struck again. This time, though, that did not seem to be the case. When Míru was released, he appeared lifeless – not dead exactly but certainly not alive either. It immediately occurred to Kirktá that, having lived a double life within the Temple of Belkhánu for so long, Míru had undoubtedly learned one or more spells that would enable him to transfer his consciousness from one body to another. He had probably done so moments before he was struck by the excellent ruby eye. If so, he was still alive and working toward his own purposes.

This was unfortunate as Míru knew not only more about Kirktá's early life and purpose but also about the seven items he'd gathered for him to use. The items consisted of: a small, uncut piece of onyx; a small wooden statue of Halúb, "the Knower of Hidden Truths," an obscure aspect of Belkhánu; a polished disc of gray metal framed in bone; a thin leather scroll, warm to the touch and slight pulsating; a mummified finger; a funerary mask with a single eye slot in the brow; and a golden statuette of an ancient ruler whose face has been erased by time. Using the spell seeing other planes, Kirktá determined that the onyx, the disc, and the mask all showed strong connections to the Planes Beyond, while the others were much less potent.

Kirktá set about examining the statue of Halúb first, soon discovering that it was actually a reliquary inside of which was a scroll wrapped in silk. The scroll was made of a sturdy, thin material that was completely black. When viewed in darkness, however, the blackness "fell away," revealing dense text written in Classical Tsolyáni. The text turned out to be the terms of the pact entered into by the First Tlakotáni with the One Other. According to those terms, the emperor-to-be offered the souls of his line to the One Other in exchange for the eternal protection of the fortress of Avanthár against all external threats. So long as the Tlakotáni continued to offer the souls of princes defeated in the Kólumejálim, the One Other would ensure Avanthár never fell.

As an expert demonologist, Keléno scoffed at the pact, calling it "sloppy." He explained that, among other things, there were too many loopholes in the text, specifically that it did not spell out the consequences if one party breaches it. He said he would never enter into such a contract with a demon, let alone a pariah god. Clearly, there must be some details that were missing, because it's difficult to imagine that the pact would have held up for more than 2000 years without either side failing to live up to it. That's when Nebússa began to wonder whether or not it was already in a state of breach, which might explain why Dhich'uné was so keen to establish new terms for it.

Speaking of Dhich'uné, because he had offered protection to many priests of Belkhánu fleeing the razing of their temple, Eselné turned his sights onto the Temple of Sárku. He had ordered his legions, including the cohort led by Grujúng into position to attack it. This concerned the other characters, who worried that such an attack might well play into Dhich'uné's hands. They rushed to the Palace of War, seeking an audience with General Kéttukal to bring their worries to him. As it turned out, Kéttukal had been looking for them. He explained that Dhich'uné had made a formal request for a parley and asked that Kirktá be the one to receive it.

Kirktá, along with Keléno and Nebússa, made their way to meet the Worm Prince. There, he delivered his ultimatum: call off the attack or else he would raise an army of the undead to defend him and turn the capital into a tomb. Additionally, he tempted Kirktá to join him so that he might finally learn the truth of who he is and why that truth was hidden for so long. Kirktá did not give in, despite his intense curiosity. Instead, he and the others returned to Eselné and Kéttukal to prepare for all-out war.

Stuck

If you’d told my younger self that, by middle age, Star Wars, Star Trek, Dungeons & Dragons – all the things I loved as a boy – would not only still exist but would be huge entertainment "brands," I doubt I’d have believed you. I certainly wouldn’t have believed I’d no longer care about them. Worse, I never would have imagined I’d feel repulsed by what they’ve become.

And yet, here we are.

Plenty of commentators have observed a phenomenon sometimes called “stuck culture” and I think that captures part of my malaise. Contemporary pop culture seems either unable or unwilling to move on from the past. Instead, it recycles, reboots, and repackages the same "intellectual properties" – a phrase I feel unclean even typing – over and over again, as though what we truly need is just one more sequel, one more origin story, one more “gritty reimagining” of a once-beloved character or setting.

This cultural stagnation is especially glaring in the realm of the nerds, where hobbies were once defined by originality and creativity. Now? They're more often defined by compulsive repetition and the embalmed echoes of past glories.

Don’t misunderstand me: there’s nothing wrong with nostalgia. Remembering the things that once brought us joy is natural, even humanizing. However, there’s a difference, in my opinion, between nostalgia and necromancy. So much of popular culture today, particularly nerd culture, feels like it’s reanimating corpses. Bigger budgets, flashier effects, and algorithmic polish don’t bring these creations back to life. They only parade them around, lifeless and hollow, like mummified icons. The result isn’t a return to something vital or real. Instead, it’s a grotesque simulacrum, stripped of its original context, meaning, and soul.

In the age of content algorithms, our past preferences become templates for future production. Innovation is replaced by optimization – and what’s being optimized isn’t storytelling or artistry, but you. Or rather, your predictable patterns of engagement. If you once loved, say, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, they'll feed you a dozen pale imitations, each more toothless, more risk-averse, and more emotionally flat than the last. If you liked elves and dungeons in 1982, the machine will churn out endless corporate flavors of the same, carefully drained of the strangeness and wonder that once made them sing.

This is apparent even in roleplaying games. There was a time when RPGs were gloriously, sometimes chaotically, diverse. Every few months brought some new idea, some strange world, some half-baked but fascinating mechanic. Some of it was brilliant, some of it was garbage, but all of it felt alive. Today? Most major RPG products are variations on a narrow set of tropes established decades ago. Even the Old School Renaissance, of which I count myself a part, often falls prey to the same trap: remaking, rehashing, repeating.

So when did creativity give way to caretaking? When did our hobby stop being about imagining new worlds and become a museum of preserved brands?

It wasn’t always this way. Nerd subcultures were once genuinely weird – offputting, insular, and proudly obscure. They were difficult to access and defiantly uncool and that very inaccessibility acted as a crucible, forging originality and independence. But the rise of the Internet, and especially social media. has flattened all subcultures. Everything is now accessible, marketable, and smoothed out for mass consumption. Because nerds were among the earliest adopters of these technologies, nerd culture may have suffered the most from this transformation.

The result is a creeping homogenization. “Fantasy” now means elves and dragons. “Sci-fi” means space wizards. Every new game must have a "brand identity," a "product roadmap," a social media presence. Anything that doesn’t fit the mold is quietly ignored, regardless of how original or inspired it might be.

What we’re losing in this cycle of endless recycling isn’t just novelty but meaning. The worlds we once explored, whether in a galaxy far, far away or deep beneath a ruined castle, mattered because they were new. They challenged our imaginations. They opened doors we didn’t even know were there. When everything becomes a remix of a remix, that sense of discovery is lost. That may be the real tragedy – not simply that nerd culture has changed, but that it has ceased to move on. It no longer dares to venture into the unknown. It circles the same drain, hoping that the next familiar logo will somehow rekindle the old spark.

But it won’t. It can’t.

The antidote to stuck culture isn’t rage and it isn’t despair. It’s refusal. Refusal to let our cultural memory be mined for spare parts. Refusal to accept brand management in place of imagination. Refusal to mistake familiarity for worth.

There are still creators out there doing strange, beautiful, uncompromising work. There are still games being written, books being published, ’zines being assembled that don’t give a damn about algorithms or intellectual property portfolios. Seek them out. Support them. Better yet, make your own.

Let the past be the past, not a franchise.

"I Am Prepared to Teach Him the Proper Rites."

©2011–2025 Jeff Dee

“Ah, Kirktá. Sit. Not as adversaries, but as brothers, as sons of the emperor – as men who remember what peace feels like.”

“Peace. That is all I wish, though Eselné does not believe me. But is it not a good ambition for one who dwells among the dead. Who better to know the true meaning of peace?”

“Everything I have done — the cloistered councils, the careful alliances, the sheltering of those who now flee from Eselné’s wrath — I have done to preserve the Empire, not to destroy it. It is Eselné who fans the flames. Eselné who tears at the old ways. Tell me, Kirktá: who breaks the Concordat? Who has sent his legions to desecrate one temple in his blind pursuit of dominion and now threatens another?”

“Not I.”

“You know he cannot win, not without destroying all that Tsolyánu is. But you still stand at the crossroads. I know who you are. I know what you are. I know where you came from. I know why you were hidden.”

“Only by walking beside me will your skein at last be made whole. Only I can draw the threads together – the frayed, the hidden, the ones others tried to cut. Let me show you the pattern behind your life. Don’t you wish to know why you were woven at all?"

“But if you decline, if you cling to Eselné’s banner, then I have no choice but to act and to act swiftly." 

"You know, of course, that Eselné is not the only prince with legions in Béy Sü.”

“Though I suppose it would be more honest to say that I have legions under Béy Sü – beneath its stones, its vaults, its ancient crypts. There are soldiers sleeping there in the dust who swore undying oaths to the Petal Throne before Eselné’s name was ever spoken. If he wishes to turn this city into a tomb, I am prepared to teach him the proper rites.”

“Tell him that. Or don’t. He will learn soon enough. But you still have a choice: stand where your true fate calls you. Stand beside me.”

"Now, go."

Dragonlance at the End of the World

One of many things that doesn't always come through in my campaign update posts are the little moments of roleplaying and character development that are, for me anyway, why I continue to participate in this hobby after so many decades. Reading those posts and the supplementary ones that draw attention to larger developments within them, one might well think the Big Stuff is all that matters to me. Of course, the Big Stuff does matter to me, especially in my House of Worms and Barrett's Raiders campaigns, where political, social, and religious struggles are important drivers of the action. Even so, it's the characters who matter most to me. They are, after all, the means by which my wonderful players interact with the situations I set before them and I appreciate the added texture they can add to the game world.

An amusing case in point is Corporal Wayne "Rocketman" Schweyk. Rocketman was originally a back-up character, introduced during the unit's time in the Free City of Kraków. All the players had a back-up character, both to fill out the unit's complement, but also as insurance in case one of the "main" characters died in combat or through some other means. Rocketman, as his name suggests, had been part of a Multiple Launch Rocket System crew during the earlier stages of the Twilight War. He eventually found his way to the Free City and became part of a group of displaced American soldiers there, some of whom joined the Raiders when they fled Kraków and its Machiavellian politics. 

As a character, Rocketman has several defining characteristics. Most obviously, he likes rockets, missiles, grenade launchers, mortars, and similar weaponry. Second, he is a good driver and always volunteers to drive one of the unit's vehicles. Finally, he's an avid reader of Dragonlance novels and makes an effort to seek out new sources of them whenever it's practical. Now that the Raiders are back in the USA, this is a fair bit easier than it was in Poland. Recently, Rocketman has begun to branch out. He's expressed an interest in Forgotten Realms novels, too, a few of which he was able to obtain in trade from soldiers stationed at Fort Lee.

On the one hand, this bit of characterization is a joke, making fun of just how many of these novels TSR published throughout the '80s and '90s – and there were a lot of them. We looked into the matter and, assuming that, in the timeline of Barrett's Raiders, TSR stopped producing new Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms novels at the end of 1997, shortly after the first Soviet nuclear strikes against America, there'd still be just shy of 100 Dragonlance novels and a little less than 80 Forgotten Realms novels. As I said, there really were a lot of these novels, but, from what I understand, they sold very, very well, outshining even the gaming material on which they were based. Talk about brandification!

On the other hand, little details like help a character to come alive. They help set him apart from his comrades and often serve as motivations for what the character does. In the case of Rocketman, he really does spend time talking to other soldiers, learning if any of them shares his interest in fantasy novels and whether there's library or other potential source for more of them. Further, his interest helps ground the campaign in its time and place. Barrett's Raiders is presently set in December 2000 in an alternate timeline that diverged at least as far back as 1985, if not earlier. Seeing as we're a quarter century removed from its chronological date and in a different reality altogether, these small reminders have proven useful.

From time to time, I should probably devote more posts to stuff like this. I've repeatedly said that the success and longevity of my various campaigns is, in large part, due to my players, who have created some really fun and memorable characters. They're one of the things that keep me engaged week after week. Shining the spotlight on some of them might prove helpful or at least interesting to readers as well.

Retrospective: Gamma World (Third Edition)

A couple of years ago, I broke with tradition and penned a Retrospective post on the second edition of Gamma World, despite having already written one on the original. I justified the decision by pointing to just how different second edition was, both in tone and presentation, from its predecessor. It stood as a vivid example of how Gamma World – and roleplaying games more broadly – were evolving in the early 1980s. By that same logic, the third edition of Gamma World, released in 1986, surely warrants a post of its own, as the differences it introduced were even more pronounced.

Since its debut in 1978, Gamma World has always seemed uncertain whether it wanted to be a madcap romp through a world of radioactive mutants or a more serious science fantasy game exploring its post-apocalyptic setting. That tension runs through every edition, but third edition feels like the first time it was intentional. I remember seeing ads for it in Dragon magazine at the time, and the cover, featuring Keith Parkinson’s vivid illustration, made a strong impression. It hinted at a bold new direction for the game, though I was struck less by its novelty than by its familiarity, having already seen the same image on a TSR calendar the year before.

If the first and second editions of Gamma World were clumsy but endearing offshoots of early D&D design – random, deadly, but bursting with imaginative potential – then the third edition marks a dramatic, and often jarring, departure. Released during a period when TSR was busy retooling many of its games in the wake of Marvel Super Heroes' success, third edition followed the lead of Star Frontiers and embraced the concept of a universal resolution system and its color-coded Action Table (ACT), column shifts, and result factors. While elegant in their original context, the ACT always felt awkward and ill-suited when retrofitted onto existing games. In Gamma World, it comes across less as a refinement and more as a mismatch – neat in theory, but clumsy in practice.

Third edition attempted to marry this new mechanical chassis to the conflicted sensibilities of earlier editions, but, in my view, the result was less than satisfactory. Combat resolution and mutation use now hinged on interpreting results from a chart – an abstraction that sapped much of the immediacy from play. Firing a Mark V Blaster was no longer a simple matter of “roll to hit, roll damage.” Instead, it became a multi-step procedure: find the appropriate ACT column, look at the result, then consult a separate chart to determine the weapon’s actual effect. One might argue this wasn’t dramatically more complex than previous systems, but for those of us who’d long ago internalized the old mechanics, it was anything but intuitive. At best, it felt like change for its own sake; at worst, a solution in search of a problem.

What also stood out – and not in a flattering way – was the presentation. The rulebook was stark and utilitarian in its layout, almost entirely bereft of artwork. What little art it did contain was mostly recycled from earlier editions, along with some lifted from Star Frontiers. A few original illustrations were scattered throughout, but they were the exception rather than the rule. Even the foldout map of Pitz Burke, a centerpiece of second edition, was repurposed here with minimal alteration. Worse still, key rules were split between the main rulebook and a separate “rules supplement” tucked into the box, fragmenting the material and giving the whole package a slapdash feel. It lacked the cohesion one expects from a fully realized edition, and instead felt cobbled together, more like a rushed repackaging than a thoughtfully constructed evolution.

Just as its mechanics felt awkwardly imposed, third edition’s treatment of the Gamma World setting also seemed diminished. Much of the evocative, if sketchy, setting material found in earlier editions was either stripped away or given only the most cursory attention. Take the cryptic alliances, for example: while they’re mentioned, their role in the world feels vague and perfunctory. Gone is the sense, so evident in second edition, that these shadowy factions were vital to understanding the post-apocalyptic landscape. The same could be said for many other aspects of Gamma World’s implied setting. It’s not that these elements are entirely absent, but that their inclusion feels scattershot and half-hearted. There’s a perfunctory, almost apathetic quality to the world-building in third edition, as if the designers were merely checking boxes rather than engaging with the material in a meaningful way. The result is a game that lacks the weird, half-glimpsed coherence that gave earlier editions their charm. It feels like a product made to fill a slot in the release schedule, not one born of creative enthusiasm.

Amidst its uneven mechanics and uninspired presentation, third edition nevertheless hinted at something more ambitious. Scattered throughout the rulebook – and more clearly in the adventure modules that followed – were the outlines of a broader campaign arc, one that seemed intended to link Gamma World to its spiritual progenitor, Metamorphosis Alpha. These modules presented ancient installations, buried technologies, and the tantalizing possibility of uncovering the true origins of the post-apocalyptic world. There were even whispers of the derelict starship Warden, as well as references to other planets and moons of the solar system, suggesting a much larger canvas than previous editions had dared to paint. That, more than anything else, remains the lasting appeal of third edition for me, the first edition to really toy with the fact that Gamma World's apocalypse belongs to the 24th century, not the 20th, and hinted at a setting far more expansive than mutant rabbits and ancient ruins.

Unfortunately, this promising thread was never fully developed. The planned module series was left incomplete and, with the arrival of Gamma World’s fourth edition in 1992, the game was rebooted once more. Any connections to Metamorphosis Alpha were quietly abandoned. Whatever larger vision might have existed was lost, leaving third edition as a curious dead end in the game’s evolution.

In the end, Gamma World Third Edition is a strange, transitional fossil, neither wholly broken nor particularly successful. It represents an attempt to modernize a legacy title by grafting onto it the mechanics of Marvel Super Heroes, but it does so without the conceptual clarity or setting depth needed to make that modernization feel purposeful. What was left is a game that is both overcomplicated and underdeveloped: a patchwork of ideas, some intriguing, others ill-suited, held together by a presentation that feels rushed and indifferent. Yet, for all its flaws, there remains a flicker of something more, an unrealized potential that somehow still has the power to capture my imagination, even if only in fragments.

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: Ares

I'm going to cheat for today's installment of this series. Rather than focusing on a single article from issue #84 of Dragon (April 1984), I'm instead going to talk about Ares, the magazine's new science fiction gaming section. First, a bit of background. Between 1980 and 1982, SPI published a gaming magazine entitled Ares. The magazine included a complete game in every issue (as was once typical of wargaming magazines), along with articles and reviews. Though not limited to sci-fi by any means, Ares did have a slightly science fictional bent to its content. There were eleven issues of Ares before TSR acquired SPI in 1982, followed by five more issues after the acquisition. The last stand-alone issue of Ares was published in "Winter 1983." TSR never really knew what to do with SPI's properties and wound up frittering them away over the course of the next few years, in the process alienating the company's considerable fanbase, many of whom (quite rightly) felt that TSR had handled the situation very badly. Though TSR tried to make some use of SPI's name and products, only the Ares name survived for long – and even then, "long" is a relative term.

From issue #84 to issue #111 (July 1986), Ares was one of my favorite sections of Dragon, since I've always been more of a SF fan than a fantasy one. The section featured articles on games like Traveller and Star Trek and Space Opera, as well as Gamma World, Star Frontiers, and a host of superhero games, especially Marvel Super Heroes. Because sci-fi has always played second (or third) banana to fantasy, you'd have expected that the pool of articles would have been pretty shallow in Ares but that wasn't the case. In my opinion, the quality of the articles in this section was consistently high, higher even than that of the rest of Dragon (which is saying something). However, its appeal was definitely more limited, which is why I suspect it was eventually killed. Why devote some many pages of each issue to genres that are also-rans compared to fantasy, especially D&D's brand of fantasy?

To this day, though, when I look back on the years when I subscribed to Dragon, the Ares articles are among those that stick out most prominently in my mind. Its coverage of Gamma World, for example, was truly excellent and I used a number of its Traveller rules variants over the years. And of course Jeff Grubb's regular "The Marvel-Phile" column was invaluable if you were running a Marvel Super Heroes campaign (or even if you weren't and were just a fan of the comics). I've always thought it a pity that a non-fantasy-centric gaming mag never really gained any degree of prominence. GDW's Challenge, where my first published writings appeared, was a decent stab at such a thing, but it eventually folded, too, much to my disappointment. Like Ares, Challenge filled a hole in the hobby that needed filling. In my opinion, it still does.

Creep, Shadow! Released

You may remember that, back in 2022, Centipede Press published a new edition of Abraham Merritt's 1932 story, Burn, Witch, Burn! that included an introduction written by yours truly. This year, they followed that up with its sort-of-sequel, Creep, Shadow!, to which I also contributed the introduction. Like its predecessor, it's a beautiful and well-made book, featuring both original dustcover and frontispiece art by Camille Alquier and interior illustrations by the great Virgil Finlay. This new edition is limited to 600 copies, so if you're interested in a copy, you'll probably need to grab one quickly from the Centipede Press website. Burn, Witch, Burn! sold out quickly and, so far as I know, it's never been reprinted. 

Here's the dustcover:

This is the credits page:

The start of a chapter, showing off a bit of Finlay artwork and the bookmark.

Finally, the signature page at the back of the book. I am dwarf among giants.

Tourists and Locals

I'm fairly certain I've previously expressed my general dislike for "one-shots" or "mini-campaigns." To be clear, my dislike isn’t absolute, but I rarely seek them out. When I do participate in them, I often come away slightly unsatisfied. One of the greatest joys of roleplaying games, at least for me, lies in the continuity of a long campaign: the way characters grow, change, and accumulate history over time; how a setting deepens and acquires texture; how throwaway details from early sessions suddenly take on new meaning months (or even years) later. If given the chance, I prefer to settle in, to put down roots, and see what emerges over the long haul. That’s usually my goal when I sit down at the table with friends. I want a campaign, not a fling.

And yet ...

Over the past few years, I've come to appreciate the distinct pleasures of convention games: those four-hour sessions with a group of strangers that begin and end in a single afternoon or evening. I had a great time at last year's Gamehole Con and came away from several sessions feeling energized and inspired. That’s part of the reason I’m looking forward to signing up for more this year. On paper, con games are the antithesis of what I usually look for in roleplaying. They’re self-contained, focused, and impermanent. Once the session is over, it’s over. So why don’t they leave me with the same hollow feeling that a short-lived home campaign often does?

While I’m not above hypocrisy, I think I have a good sense of why I enjoy con games more than I would have expected.

Playing a game at a convention is, for me, a form of tourism. I show up, meet new people, and explore a small slice of a game or setting with which I may not be familiar. It’s a snapshot. There’s no illusion of permanence, no lingering sense of “what might have been.” The characters might be memorable and the play enjoyable, but everyone understands from the outset that this is a limited-time engagement. It’s a visit, not a move.

A home campaign with friends, by contrast, is more like choosing to live somewhere. There’s an implicit commitment. We’re investing in something meant to last. That shared commitment changes everything. When I play with friends, I generally don’t want the game to have an expiration date. I want room to build, to wander, to return to familiar locations, to interact with recurring NPCs, to watch the slow accretion of detail and consequence. A one-off in that context feels like a house without a foundation –furnished, perhaps, for a party, but not built for living in.

There’s also a difference in ambition. A convention game rarely tries to be more than it is. It knows its limits and, when well-run, delivers something satisfying within them. A one-shot at home, on the other hand, often aspires to be a mini-campaign or the seed of something larger, but without the time to grow into either. The result is frequently a sense of missed potential. The game ends just as things are getting interesting. I experienced this recently during a game of Dragonbane that one of my Dolmenwood players refereed for us. It was fun but also a little bit frustrating: a glimpse of something promising that ended too soon.

None of this is meant as a criticism of short-form RPG play. Many people love one-shots and mini-campaigns and probably with good reason. For me, though, the pleasure of roleplaying originates elsewhere. I want to stay, not merely pass through. I want to know the locals, not just see the sights.

But every now and then, it’s good to be a tourist.

Rich and Creamy

 A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that, after so many years of refereeing Empire of the Petal Throne, I found myself craving a vanilla fantasy setting – something simpler and more straightforward than Tékumel but that was nevertheless very well done. I received a lot of good suggestions in the comments to that post, but one of the best ones came directly from Rob Conley, a fellow blogger who's done some truly excellent work over the years, especially regarding the subject of sandbox settings, both for fantasy and for Traveller. If you're at all interested in sandboxes, I highly recommend you check out those series of posts. In my opinion, they're pretty close to definitive.

Rob has done a lot of other great stuff worthy of your attention, like Blackmarsh, a free hexcrawl setting in the tradition of the Outdoor Survival map OD&D suggested the referee use for adjudicating wilderness travel and exploration. Blackmarsh is one of my favorite things from the first few years of the Old School Renaissance. I made use of it in my Dwimmermount campaign to represent the region immediately to the north of the main campaign area. It's a great example of well-done vanilla fantasy, providing a referee with just enough material to spark his own imagination without limiting his options.

Now, Rob is preparing to release another sandbox, one built on the foundation of Blackmarsh and related projects: Into the Majestic Fantasy Realms: The Northern Marches. As its title suggests, The Northern Marches is connected to Rob's Majestic Fantasy RPG, but is completely usable with your preferred old school fantasy rules. In that respect, it's a lot like Judges Guild's old Wilderlands of High Fantasy material in that it sketches out a huge amount of real estate that can be adopted and adapted as the referee sees fit. Rob has a long history with the Wilderlands setting, so I doubt he'd argue against saying his Majestic Fantasy Realms setting has been inspired by it, even if it's very much its own unique thing.

Rob very kindly shared with me his latest draft of The Northern Marches, which is an immense document of over 100,000 words. Don't be put off by its length. Though there are some high-level discussions of history, geography, politics, and religion, the vast majority of this text is devoted to short but evocative descriptions of the notable hexes of the four regional maps included with the book. Just as useful is the section devoted to traveling within the setting and all that that entails – caravans, ships, exhaustion, rates of travel, and more. This is, after all, a sandbox setting, so these sorts of things are absolutely essential to make full use of it. 

You can see the full table of contents, along with a preview of the setting here. Another overview of the setting and this project can be found in this post on Rob's blog. It's really well done and very much in keeping not just with the excellent material Rob has made before, but also with his work on creating and running sandbox campaigns. I was very impressed by the scope of The Northern Marches, not to mention the obvious work Rob has put into making it accessible and usable. While it's still too early to say how I might eventually decide to sate my craving for vanilla fantasy, I can say there's a very good chance I'll make use of The Northern Marches in one way or another. If that sounds like something you might be interested in, I highly recommend checking it out.

Things That Go Bump in the Decade

This being the only Friday the 13th of 2025, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to muse a little about the spooky stuff I grew up with during my childhood in the 1970s, things that no doubt informed my continued fascination with the uncanny even today.

Back then, the world still seemed full of mysteries – or at least it was easy to imagine that it was. Stories of haunted houses, UFOs, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and all manner of cryptids and bizarre phenomena were staples of popular culture. They filled the pages of supermarket tabloids, popped up in solemnly narrated TV specials, and circulated in schoolyard whispers. Even if few people truly believed in them, almost everyone enjoyed talking about them. The possibility alone was enough.

Looking back, it’s striking how pervasive the weird was in everyday life. I vividly recall garish paperbacks detailing “true” encounters with the unknown, cartoons and comics riffing on paranormal themes, and, of course, the ever-present influence of movies and television shows like In Search Of..., Project U.F.O., Kolchak: The Night Stalker, and The Amityville Horror, among many, many more. These stories occupied a curious space in the cultural imagination – not quite believed, not quite disbelieved either, and all the more compelling for it. They invited speculation, encouraged imagination, and cultivated a sense of wonder tinged with dread.

Even as a kid, I never bought into most of it. I didn’t spend my nights scanning the skies for flying saucers or lurking in the woods hoping to glimpse Sasquatch. But I wanted to believe, at least a little. The world felt more interesting, more alive, with those possibilities lurking just beyond the edges of certainty. What if there was something out there? That question alone was enough to fire my imagination.

And fire it did. By the time I discovered Dungeons & Dragons and, through it, other roleplaying games, I was already primed for them. After all, I’d spent years immersed in tales of mysterious creatures, unexplained lights, and restless spirits. RPGs gave me a new framework to explore those ideas, one where I wasn’t just reading or hearing the stories but helping to create them. I could conjure new monsters, new haunted places, new eerie events, and imagine how I or others might respond if the strange and uncanny ever crossed into our reality.

Today, that world of half-believed wonder seems distant, if not entirely gone. The Internet, with its unblinking capacity to record, debunk, and explain, has driven much of the weird to the cultural margins. Cell phone cameras are everywhere and the lack of blurry, ambiguous evidence speaks louder than all the old rumors ever did. Of course, being middle-aged hasn’t helped my credulity either. I’m more skeptical now, more prone to roll my eyes than widen them, but I still feel a twinge of wistfulness. There was a magic in those stories – the giddy unease, the delighted fear, the sense that the world might be stranger than it appeared and that something astonishing might be hiding in plain sight.

I don’t miss the bad haircuts or the shag carpeting, but I do miss that feeling, that delicious tension between belief and disbelief, the sense of possibility that once seemed to shimmer in the air. Maybe that’s why, even after more than forty years, I’m still rolling dice and spinning yarns of my own. I’m chasing that feeling, the thrill of stepping into the unknown, of turning the corner and finding that the world is bigger, weirder, and more mysterious than we’d dared to imagine.

On a superstitious day like today, I try to remember what it felt like to believe – not entirely, but just enough to wonder.