Playable Realism

Apologies in advance for the poor quality of this image, but it was the best I could find. It's the second page of a two-page advertisement (the first page is almost identical to the one I posted yesterday) for GDW's then-upcoming science fiction RPG, Traveller: 2300, which appeared in issue #115 (November 1986) of Dragon. 

The advertisement is significant for a couple reasons. First, the section under the heading "history" suggests a connection to Twilight: 2000, though it's not explicit. That was the first indication my younger self had to the fact that this wasn't, despite its title, a prequel game to Traveller. My younger self was also confused by the reference to the "Second French Empire," since, being very keen on history, I remembered the period between 1852 and 1870, when Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte reigned as Napoleon III. It was a rare misstep by GDW, a company that usually gets its history right, and was soon corrected in subsequent ads and in the text of Traveller: 2300 itself, but I still remember the error to this day.

The second notable thing about the advertisement is its emphasis on "playable realism," both in its game mechanics and in its scientific speculations. Rules-wise, Traveller: 2300 isn't anything special, even for its time. In fact, there were enough problems with its original rules that I suspect it's the reason why GDW went ahead with a revision of the entire game less than two years later (under the title, 2300AD, by which its usually known). 

However, on the science end of things, Traveller: 2300 was definitely a step up from Traveller's broader, slightly more space opera take on these matters – or so it appeared in 1986. Science, especially astronomy and astrophysics, is a constantly evolving body of knowledge, so I can't blame the designers at GDW were not being up on the latest data and theories. Remember, this was before the Internet made it much easier to keep up to date. Given what they had to work with, I think GDW did a creditable job of creating a plausible, grounded vision of human interstellar civilization three centuries hence.

I certainly liked it – so much so that I largely abandoned my true love, Traveller proper, for a number of years in favor of its little brother. And, despite its many flaws, I still love the idea of Traveller: 2300, hence my desire to one day follow up Barrett's Raiders with a science fiction campaign depicting Earth and its interstellar colonies several centuries after the wreck of the Twilight War.

State-of-the-Art Science-Fiction Role-Playing

That's a lot of hyphens! This advertisement, which appeared in issue #114 of Dragon (October 1986) was the first time I'd heard that GDW was preparing to release another science fiction roleplaying game. Based on its title, I assumed – falsely, as it turned out – that it was some kind of prequel to Traveller. Of course, being the Traveller fan I was, the date included in the title struck me as even more intriguing. Why 2300? In the history of the Third Imperium setting, 2300 AD is just a handful of years before the Terran defeat of the Vilani (First) Imperium and the establishment of the Rule of Man (aka the Second Imperium). That really excited me, as I often thought the Rule of Man would be a great alternate setting for Traveller. My assumption proved mistaken, however, and Traveller: 2300 proved to be a very different game than I was initially expecting.

Retrospective: Colonial Atlas

As you know, I've been refereeing a Twilight: 2000 campaign, Barrett's Raiders, since December 2021. Earlier this year, its focus shifted from war-torn Poland to post-nuclear America. As much as I'd enjoyed the earlier portion of the campaign, I was, in fact, very much looking forward to this new chapter. A big reason why is that I was very keen to see the characters take part in the rebuilding of the USA in the aftermath of the Twilight War. I thought that was a great frame for a thoughtful, serious military RPG campaign.

Of course, another reason why I was so keen on this is that I had dreams – likely never to be realized – of one day following up Barrett's Raiders with a 2300AD (né Traveller: 2300) campaign that linked back in some way to the events of the former. That's always been a big part of the appeal of 2300AD: its connection to the future history of Twilight: 2000 and how it extrapolates forward from that starting point. I thought doing something similar had the makings of an "ultimate campaign," hence my continued hope that I just might be able to pull it off. 

I was reminded of all of this just the other night, when I was refereeing Barrett's Raiders. That, in turn, reminded me of some of the better products GDW published for 2300AD, like the Colonial Atlas. Published in 1988, the Colonial Atlas is, like the game it was written to support, steeped in a particular strain of late Cold War futurism, one that eschews the gleaming utopias and mythic space opera of other SF RPGs in favor of grit, realism, and geopolitical nuance. It is, in many ways, one of the most emblematic products of 2300AD’s worldview: a sober, unromantic look at the challenges of extrasolar colonization in a future that looks suspiciously like 1980s Earth but with (slightly) better technology.

The Colonial Atlas presents over two dozen settled worlds in human space, each with varying levels of development, threat, and potential for adventure. The core of the book is planetary gazetteer material, and if that sounds dry, it can be – but it's also fascinating. Each entry provides topographical, ecological, and political data about a given colony, along with historical notes and adventure hooks. The book thus functions as an indispensable setting guide for any 2300AD referee, but it’s more than just a travelog. It’s also a window into a setting that takes its own premises seriously (which is exactly what you'd expect from a GDW RPG).

The detail is frequently impressive, if occasionally overwhelming. The worlds presented aren't just backdrops for adventure. There’s an almost obsessive focus on hard science plausibility, something that feels like a logical extension of what we got in Traveller, but here it’s applied to planetary settlement in a way that’s more NASA than, say, Star Trek. What’s more interesting, though, is how the Colonial Atlas uses that detail to underscore the difficulty, even futility, of colonization. Many worlds are hostile, economically marginal, or politically unstable. These are not shining beacons of a post-scarcity future. Instead, they are struggling frontier outposts, often abandoned by their Earthside sponsors and left to fend for themselves.

The geopolitical tension that underpins 2300AD is deeply felt here. Each of the great Earth powers – France, Manchuria, America, and others – has carved out slices of the galaxy and the resulting colonial patchwork is rife with competition, suspicion, and occasional violence. This is the age of empire redux, and the Colonial Atlas wears that cynicism openly. Even the book’s graphic design, with its utilitarian charts, maps, and wireframe esthetics, contributes to the sense of a future built by bureaucrats and engineers, not by dreamers. To be clear, that's not a criticism. The universe described in the Colonial Atlas is very much in line with movies like Outland or the Alien films (both of them) and that's something I've always enjoyed.

As a game supplement, the Colonial Atlas does its job well. It provides structure and inspiration for countless adventures, whether in the form of local unrest, corporate espionage, environmental disasters, or alien mysteries. As an artifact from the late 1980s, it also captures the mindset of that particular moment in history, when SF speculation looked to the future and saw not transcendence, but the same old human problems projected across the stars. Its vision of the future is one where the then-modern world hadn’t so much evolved as metastasized.

Colonial Atlas was always among my favorite 2300AD products, though it's not perfect by any means. I suspect that writers Timothy B. Brown, Rob Caswell, and Deb Zeigler often knew little or nothing about the foreign countries and languages about which they wrote. There are numerous egregious errors in the book's use of French, for instance – Provence Nouveau instead of Nouvelle Provence as the name of the French Alpha Centauri colony being just one example – so I imagine similar cruelties have been inflected on other tongues as well. Likewise, some of the colonies presented are downright dull, offering little in the way of reasons for ever visiting them in a campaign. Maybe that's the point, but, even so, I would have liked a little more imagination or at least a hint of mystery. Even in a setting grounded in realism, adventure needs somewhere to take root.

It's still too early to say whether the Barrett's Raiders campaign will one day give birth to 2300AD campaign. If it does happen, though, I have no doubt I'll making good use of the Colonial Atlas. It's a solid little supplement with lots to recommend it, even more than three decades later.

Grigori Vasilyevich Romanov (1923–1998)

General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (1985–1998)

Chairman of the State Defense Committee (1986–1998)

Grigori Vasilyevich Romanov (1923–1998) was a Soviet statesman, military hardliner, and General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1985 until his death. His tenure marked the decisive end of reformist currents within the CPSU and a turn toward centralized authoritarianism aimed at preserving the territorial, ideological, and geopolitical integrity of the Soviet Union. Under his leadership, the USSR reversed decades of perceived decline at the cost of heightened repression, global destabilization, and, ultimately, the outbreak of World War III.

Early Life and Career

Born in the village of Zikhnovo in Leningrad Oblast, Romanov came of age during the crucible of the Great Patriotic War. A decorated Red Army veteran, he joined the Communist Party soon after the war and rose steadily through its ranks, developing a reputation as a rigid ideologue and an admirer of Stalin’s methods. By the early 1970s, Romanov had become the First Secretary of the Leningrad Regional Committee, where he imposed strict economic discipline and cultivated powerful allies in the military-industrial complex.

In 1973, Romanov was elevated to the Politburo and became a full member in 1976. He was widely regarded as the most conservative senior official in the Soviet hierarchy by the early 1980s. His open disdain for the reformist ideas of Mikhail Gorbachev (1931–1991) and others earned him the backing of the KGB and powerful elements within the General Staff, who feared that reform of any kind would unravel the Union.

Rise to Power

Following the death of Konstantin Chernenko in March 1985, the CPSU was at an ideological crossroads. Though Gorbachev was preferred by the Western press and some technocratic elites, Romanov, with support from the security apparatus, orchestrated a swift and silent purge of the reformist bloc. Gorbachev was formally removed from contention under the pretense of "health concerns" and soon disappeared from public life entirely.

Once in power, Romanov moved quickly. State censorship was reinvigorated, samizdat literature criminalized, and liberal intellectuals rounded up. Universities, once semi-autonomous bastions of reformist thought, were placed under direct Party control. Economic decentralization efforts were reversed, and military production was prioritized over consumer goods.

In 1986, Romanov publicly declared a “Second Great Patriotic Effort,” a mobilization of Soviet society against the “imperialist encirclement” he claimed sought to dismantle socialism through covert means. This speech marked the ideological cornerstone of his reign: unity through siege mentality.

Consolidation and Conflict

Romanov’s foreign policy was aggressive, calculated, and unapologetically anti-Western. Rejecting détente, he sought to reclaim Soviet prestige abroad and crush all signs of weakness within the Warsaw Pact. The KGB, GRU, and Spetsnaz were given free rein to carry out covert actions worldwide.

For example, in 1987, the Soviet Union orchestrated military-backed coups in Syria and Iraq, toppling unreliable Ba’athist elements and replacing them with pro-Soviet juntas loyal to Moscow. These two client states, long at odds, were forced into rapprochement through Soviet mediation and began joint oil and military cooperation agreements. Soviet troops and advisers poured into both countries, turning them into heavily fortified buffers against U.S. influence in the Middle East.

By 1988, Soviet-backed paramilitary movements had made gains in Central Africa and Southeast Asia. In 1989, Romania's Nicolae Ceaușescu was assassinated in a mysterious “accident” after resisting Romanov's directives; his replacement, General Mihai Răducan, aligned Romania more closely with Soviet objectives.

The Soviets also undermined NATO cohesion through a sustained disinformation campaign. A major success came in 1990, when France temporarily suspended NATO joint exercises amid a scandal involving leaked CIA documents (planted by the KGB) suggesting U.S. plans to use Western Europe as a nuclear buffer.

The Road to War

By the early 1990s, the world teetered on the brink. The Kuwait Crisis of 1990 and the Korean Emergency (1992) both contributed to the increasing sense that events were spinning out of control. In response to this rising instability, Romanov withdrew from the Strategic Arms Reduction Talks in 1993 and began an ambitious nuclear modernization and dispersal program, shifting mobile ICBMs deep into Siberia and Central Asia. The USSR also quietly expanded its anti-ballistic missile systems around Moscow and Leningrad, violating longstanding treaties.

Domestically, ethnic unrest in the Caucasus and Baltics was met with mass deportations and political assassinations. The KGB’s Internal Stability Directorate, established in 1994, functioned as a shadow government, tasked with hunting down dissidents and foreign sympathizers.

The Twilight War and Final Years

The outbreak of the Sino-Soviet War in 1995, ostensibly over water rights and border disputes, drained Soviet resources but allowed Romanov to justify full mobilization. When the attempted reunification of Germany in early 1996 led to NATO troops entering East German territory, Romanov responded decisively. Nuclear weapons were used sparingly at first – primarily against hardened military targets – but, by late 1997, tactical and strategic exchanges had devastated much of Europe and North America.

Despite widespread devastation, Romanov refused to negotiate. "If socialism must perish, it will perish in fire, not in compromise," he reportedly told the State Defense Committee. Soviet authority was preserved through ruthless internal control and the relative survival of its Asian and Central Eurasian territories.

Romanov died on April 14, 1998, under mysterious circumstances – officially a stroke, though persistent rumors suggested a coup orchestrated by military or GRU officers who feared he would press for renewed hostilities. He was succeeded by Marshal Gennady Reznikov, former Chief of the General Staff and an architect of the USSR's current martial regime.

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "How Many Coins in a Coffer?"

Another preview of the Silver Age appears in issue #80 (December 1983) of Dragon, in the article "How Many Coins in a Coffer?" by David F. Godwin. The article's premise is that the way AD&D abstracts encumbrance with regards to coins makes no sense, since the Players Handbook states that all coins are relatively the same size and weight (one-tenth of a pound or 1.6 ounces). After quibbling over the meaning of "relatively," the author points out that, for example, platinum weighs 2.5 times as much as copper. Given that, how can these two types of coins be the same weight or the same size? He goes on to note that this problem isn't unique to AD&D. RuneQuest doesn't talk about the size of its coinage, but it does talk about its weight and does so in a way that Godwin believes is nonsensical (he points out that silver does not weigh twice as much as copper). Tunnels & Trolls also includes coins that weigh one-tenth of a pound each but without any reference to size.

Having presented that prolog, the author explains why this matter concerns him:

The easiest way out is to reiterate that it's only a game and isn't supposed to be totally realistic. What's realistic about fire-breathing dragons or alignment languages? How does that accord with the laws of biology and physics? There are quite a few of us out here in the boondocks who feel perfectly comfortable with basilisks, fireballs, illusions, the fact that a spell called "continual light" produces continuous light with nothing intermittent about it, and even the rule that clerics can't use edged weapons, but who balk at the idea of a world where platinum, gold, electrum, silver and copper all weigh precisely the same for a given volume. And if we do say that all coin metals weigh the same, we are still faced with the volume question.

The bulk of the article that follows then concerns not so much the weight of individual coins, which Godwin admits would give the referee a nervous breakdown to track, but with the size of coins. His interest in this question is in how many of a given coin will fit into a given container. So, if a chest is 18" x 30" x 18" in dimension, how many gold coins can it contain? How many silver? What about a mix of gold and silver? By recourse to formulae involving the specific gravities of each metal, Godwin is able to offer a small table that gives the weight, volume, and thickness of typical coins of precious metal in AD&D. Armed with this table and the size of any container, the referee can, with comparative ease, determine how many coins of any type can fit within it.

As these kinds of articles go, "How Many Coins in a Coffer?" isn't very math-heavy. Godwin kindly saves most of the math for himself, but, even so, the idea of having to spend much time calculating how many silver pieces actually fit into an adventurer's saddlebags seems a needless complication. Working the other way – figuring out many and how large the containers holding a given volume of treasure must be – is not better in my opinion. But then I prefer to keep most things in Dungeons & Dragons fairly abstract, from hit points to experience points to encumbrance. Worrying about such things has never been an obsession of mine (I'd prefer to obsess about other things), but, back in 1983 and beyond, such obsessions became commoner in the pages of Dragon. The drive toward "realism," whether in encumbrance, weather, linguistics, population density, or some other area, was the tenor of the day and Dragon's content reflected that.

"The Empire is not a garment to be torn apart in haste."

From a proclamation issued by Prince Dhich'uné Tlakotáni from the Palace of Twilight Echoes, his official residence in Béy Sü, in response to the speech of his brother, Prince Eselné (11 Fésru 2360 A.S.):

 “The Empire is not a garment to be torn apart in haste. It is a living body – ancient, sacred, and ever-renewing – whose bones are the old laws, whose blood is tradition, and whose soul is a pact between men and the gods.

Many have asked where I stand. Let it be known: I stand with the Choosing.

The Kólumejàlim is not a mere contest. It is not a matter of swords and banners, nor of whose legions can seize which gate. It is an ancient rite, sanctified by time, by custom, and by powers beyond mortal reckoning. I seek no throne stolen in the night. I seek only that which is offered through the old way – the only way – the way that preserves the continuity of the Empire.

My brother Eselné, for whom I still hold affection, has broken with this path. He marches under banners of conquest and speaks of purification. He threatens to raze temples, to sunder the Concordat, to burn this very city in order to save it. This is not the act of a savior. It is the howl of a man who would trade the soul of Tsolyánu for the illusion of safety.

He says I am the danger, that I am some dark, unspeakable threat. I ask you: who now threatens to topple temples? Who now desecrates the order of succession? Who now calls for war upon his own kin, upon Avanthár, upon the Golden Tower itself?

I say: let the Choosing proceed. Let each of us stand as we are, judged by the gods and the Weaver of Skeins alike. Let us not break the world for fear of what might be. That is not the act of a prince – but of a tyrant.

I call upon my brothers and sister: Táksuru, Rereshqála, Ma’ín – even Kirktá, whose counsel he knows I value greatly – to speak with one voice against this madness. Persuade Eselné, if he may still be reached. And if not, stand firm against him. Not for my sake, but for that of the Empire.

We are but moments in a greater story. Let us not be the ones who bring it to an end.” 

Traveller Distinctives: Speculative Trade

One of the most distinctive features of Traveller is its embrace of systems and procedures that actively generate adventure, rather than merely supporting it. While there are a great many of these to be found within the original three Little Black Books, none stands out more than Book 2's speculative trade rules. While some might view them as a subsystem for creating background flavor or side income, these rules can, if used properly, form the beating heart of a campaign, particularly one inspired by the traditions of classic space opera.

Unlike most roleplaying games, where economic concerns are usually hand-waved or simplified to a matter of "you have enough funds to buy equipment and live," Traveller treats interstellar trade as a central and often risky endeavor. With a starship mortgage payment looming over the heads of the player characters, the need to turn a profit is not just a narrative conceit: it's an ever-present pressure that drives decision-making and gameplay. Whether the characters are ex-navy officers, cashiered merchants, or washed-up scouts, they still have to keep the ship flying and that means finding a way to pay the bills.

The rules for speculative trade are deceptively simple: each world has one or more trade codes that influence what goods are available and in demand. Players can roll for available cargos, purchase them at one price, and attempt to sell them for profit elsewhere. However, this simple structure masks something surprisingly powerful. The trade tables and modifiers turn the Traveller universe into a sandbox filled with opportunities. Trade becomes more than a downtime activity; it becomes the reason to leave a starport, to make the next jump, to hope that those pharmaceuticals you just found for cheap on a non-agricultural world will turn you a huge profit on an industrial world elsewhere in the subsector. Speculative trade rewards exploration and fosters player-driven action within the game world, offering the crew a sense of purpose and autonomy that few RPGs can match.

In this sense, speculative trade in Traveller functions a little bit like a dungeon in fantasy Dungeons & Dragons. Like the dungeon, trade provides structure, risk, and reward. Rather than moving room by room, the characters engaged in trade by jumping from world to world, each with its own risks – pirates, overzealous officials, expensive brokers, and volatile markets. Every jump is a gamble, every cargo hauled a potential fortune or disaster. Like a good dungeon, the trade system is laced with unpredictability. The randomness of the tables means players must deal with both lucky windfalls and frustrating dry spells. This, in turn, encourages creative problem solving. Do we take on passengers instead? Try our hand at smuggling? Accept a dubious patron's offer to transport illicit cargo? The game doesn't tell you what to do, but it gives you the tools to decide.

I've talked before about the centrality of patrons in Traveller. The trade system often works hand in glove with patron encounters. When speculative trade isn't enough to cover fuel or mortgage payments, patrons become essential. They offer dangerous but lucrative alternatives to normal commerce, reinforcing the economic and moral ambiguity of life on the fringes of civilized space. A crew might thus find themselves hauling mining equipment one week and weapons for a rebel cell the next, all while trying to stay one step ahead of Navy patrol cruisers or a corporate debt collector. These intersections between trade and patronage add texture and variety to a session, ensuring that even the most mercantile campaign can pivot into intrigue, espionage, or even open conflict. Conversely, games with other focuses can benefit from making use of the speculative trading rules, as I saw time and again during my Riphaeus Sector campaign.

What makes all this so striking is how rarely I've encountered systems of this sort in other RPGs, except perhaps those that were (explicitly or implicitly) cribbing from Traveller. While some games offer crafting systems or allow players to buy and sell goods, few present trade as a campaign-shaping activity in and of itself. Fewer still provide procedures robust enough to let an entire group play as independent traders without needing to be railroaded into scripted plots. In Traveller, the ship is your character's home, his workplace, and an adventure generator. Every jump, every transaction, every roll of the dice contributes to the unfolding of a meaningful campaign built from choices and consequences.

This focus on trade also helps shape the kind of characters Traveller produces. It's a game that supports brokers, engineers, and navigators as much as it does marines or naval officers. The dream of many player characters isn't to become a great galactic hero but to retire comfortably after a few lucky runs, maybe even owning their ship outright. It is a quieter kind of success, one rooted in competence, tenacity, and a certain cynicism born from dealing with the interstellar bureaucracy and the dangers of the frontier. These characters are rarely larger-than-life icons. Instead, they're professionals, survivors, and schemers trying to make a living in a universe that doesn't care about them.

In the end, speculative trade in Traveller is more than just another subsystem. It's a lens through which the game's unique style of play can come into focus: risk, independence, grit, and the lure of the unknown. It invites players to become merchant princes, chasing profits and dodging disaster, one jump at a time. In doing so, it captures something essential not only about Traveller as a game, but about the science fiction literature that inspired it, where the stars are full of promise and fortune favors the bold.

Save Versus Senescence

One of the few good things to have come out of the late unpleasantness of the pandemic was being able to reconnect with a number of friends and family with whom I'd lost touch over the years, including high school classmates. I hadn't seen or spoken to some of my classmates since I'd graduated almost forty(!) years ago. Getting back in touch with them after all these years has been an unexpected blessing and I'm very grateful to the friend who made it happen. We now get together virtually every couple of weeks and it's always a good time.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, these online get-togethers have got me thinking more and more about the passage of time and the effect it has on the mind. I often joke that your 50s are the last decade of life where you can still possibly delude yourself into thinking that you're not old, but the truth is, by any real measure, I’m no longer a young man (though, given my curmudgeonly nature, I'm not sure I was ever a young man). I’ve also been part of this hobby for over four decades now and while I obviously still find great joy in it, I’ve also started to see it in a new light – not just as a pastime, but as a practice.

Over the years, I’ve unfortunately known too many people whose minds have withered in old age, people who were once sharp, curious, and imaginative, now diminished, their thoughts clouded and their memories unreliable. It’s painful to witness, especially when the person in question is close to you, as is the case with my family. Seeing firsthand the toll that old age can take on someone's mental faculties has made me determined to do everything I can to avoid that same fate. I have no interest in surrendering to senescence without a fight – especially not when it comes to my creativity, imagination, memory, and the other intellectual powers that roleplaying games have nurtured in me for so long. In fact, I’ve come to believe that RPGs may be the best tools I have for keeping my mind sharp and my spirit engaged as I grow older.

Consider: 

Running a campaign demands memory. It’s not just about remembering rules (though Crom knows that’s also no small feat), but recalling names, places, events, and the offhand comment a player made six sessions ago that has now become central to their investigations. Players too must remember clues, maps, tactics, and what happened the last time they dared to venture into the underworld. This kind of mental juggling is excellent exercise for the brain. It’s work, yes, but the right kind of work, the kind that strengthens rather than exhausts.

Likewise, we often talk about how roleplaying games engage the imagination and it’s true. Whether you’re a referee creating a new adventure locale or a player fleshing out a character’s background, you’re involved in active creation. Imagination isn’t something you lose simply because you’ve got gray in your beard. Like a muscle, it needs use to stay limber. RPGs offer a regular, structured way to exercise your creative faculties – not passively but actively and in concert with others doing the same.

A good roleplaying game, particularly of the old school variety celebrated around here, puts a premium on problem-solving. It’s not about "character builds" or "system mastery," it’s about figuring things out: how to get past the locked door; how to negotiate with the bandit leader; how to escape the dungeon when half the party is unconscious and the torch is burning low. These are the kinds of challenges that reward lateral thinking, resourcefulness, and calm decision-making under pressure. These are also skills worth keeping sharp for use in the real world.

I've talked about this many times over the history of this blog, but it bears repeating: RPGs are, at their heart, a social activity. They bring people together – friends, family, even strangers – for shared experiences. Social interaction is vital to mental health, particularly in old age. My father-in-law used to say, "Loneliness is a killer" and he was right. Isolation kills the spirit. A regular game night, even if it’s online, keeps the lines of communication open and the bonds of fellowship strong. 

In a similar way, having a campaign to plan, a dungeon to stock, or an NPC to create gives me something to look forward to. It creates a rhythm in life, as well as a sense of continuity. The real world might be uncertain, the body might be slower, but, in the game, there’s always a next step, a new adventure on the horizon.

I realize that, in writing this, I’m not just talking about games. I’m talking about resistance – to decline, to irrelevance, to the quiet erosion of faculties that so many assume is inevitable. I reject that. I believe that staying mentally active and creatively engaged is not only possible as we age, it’s essential. Roleplaying games, with their boundless potential for imagination, challenge, and connection, are among the best tools I know for doing just that.

There's no doubt I’m older than I was when I'd spend hours in my room poring over the write-ups in the Monster Manual, imagining the adventures I'd create for my friends. Even so, I’m still here – still imagining, still playing, still creating. As long as I’m able, I intend to keep those dice rolling.

Not just for fun but for life.

Performance Anxiety

Late last summer, I first broached the idea of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign finally ending. As regular readers know, House of Worms is the longest campaign I’ve ever run with a stable group of players. Week after week, year after year, we have returned to Tékumel, exploring its labyrinthine politics, alien gods, and decaying glories together. It’s been a singular experience, one I never quite expected to last this long when we first began playing more than a decade ago.

In fact, when we started House of Worms, I had no expectation that it'd last more than maybe a few months. At the time, I hadn't played in the world of Tékumel in almost ten years and, even then, it was for only a brief period, so I assumed something similar would happen. This time, though, something clicked and did so almost immediately. The characters took on lives of their own. The setting opened up like a great unfolding map, rich with possibilities. The players responded with curiosity and commitment – and so did I. Before long, we had a real campaign and that campaign became a weekly tradition, a touchstone not just for our hobby lives but also for our friendships.

I’m proud of what we have accomplished. The characters evolved from unknown newcomers to key players on the imperial stage. Locations, events, and characters that began as vague sketches soon crystallized into defining elements of not just of the campaign but our conception of what Tékumel is like as a setting. Choices had consequences. Deaths mattered (often in unexpected ways). Victories felt earned. What began as a yet another attempt to play an old school roleplaying game few remembered soon became something more: a collaborative, shared history of the sort that I think is genuinely unique to this hobby of ours.

Still, it’s time. The campaign started to lose a lot of momentum in 2024 and we all recognized this. The characters had been through a lot during the previous nine years of play and, while there were still lots of places they could go, we'd nevertheless reached a point that felt like some kind of ending was in sight. Certainly, we could play on – as a setting, Tékumel is immense and filled with possibilities – but to do so would feel like lingering after the curtain has fallen. Better, we decided, to end well than to drag things out past their prime. That knowledge doesn’t make it any easier, though. There’s a sadness in ending a campaign of such longevity. 

There's also satisfaction and pride and lots of other positive feelings too. The House of Worms campaign shouldn't be mourned but celebrated. Likewise, my players are very loyal; they've asked me to start a new campaign when we finally conclude our current one. They want something fresh but with the same spirit of discovery, depth, and continuity that defined House of Worms. Their enthusiasm is heartening. It means I did something right. It means the game mattered, which makes me very happy. I often think we don't recognize just how meaningful and important a good RPG campaign can be to the people who participate in it.

So, even as things wind down, I am very pleased by what we've accomplished – but I'm also more than a little anxious about the future.

The truth is I’ve launched many campaigns over the years. Most of them didn't last. Some sputtered out after only a handful of sessions. Others lasted a respectable amount of time but never achieved the same alchemy as House of Worms. That’s the way of things. Long-running, deeply satisfying campaigns are rare. They are accidents of chemistry, timing, and luck as much as planning and design. You can’t force them into being, no matter how hard you try to do so. This is one of the more frustrating aspects of roleplaying as a hobby: there are no guarantees that you'll actually enjoy what you're playing, especially not over the long term.

Part of the challenge is structural. Life intrudes. Schedules shift. Interests drift. Players move on. Sustaining any long-term creative endeavor, especially one that depends on the consistent involvement of several adults with busy lives, is very hard. Sustaining it for ten years is, frankly, a minor miracle and, like all miracles, it’s not one you can replicate on command.

There’s another kind of challenge, too: the weight of comparison. After something as long-lived and beloved as House of Worms, anything new is likely to feel slight by contrast. Early sessions will lack the depth of history. New characters will feel unformed. The setting will feel empty until it is slowly filled in over the course of weeks and months. It’s hard not to wonder then: will this new campaign, whatever it winds up being, catch fire the same way? Will it grow into something fun and meaningful or will it fall apart before it ever finds its legs?

I simply don't know and that's what makes all of this so nerve-wracking. I’m not afraid to admit that I feel the pressure of trying to follow up what might well be the best campaign I’ve ever run, possibly ever will run. House of Worms was a kind of creative lightning strike, the sort of thing that comes together once in a lifetime if you're lucky. It had the right players, the right setting, the right spark. Trying to recreate that, consciously or not, feels daunting, even a little foolish. What if the next campaign just doesn't measure up? What if it fizzles out early? What if I no longer have whatever intangible thing it was that made House of Worms work?

These are the questions that I keep pondering as I consider what comes next. They're not unfamiliar questions – as I said, I’ve had plenty of campaigns fail before – but this time they sting a little more. They sting because I know what's possible. I’ve seen the metaphorical mountaintop. I’ve spent ten years there. Coming back down, trying to find a new path, even with the same companions, feels uncertain in a way that’s hard to shake.

Yet, for all that, I’m still going to try. What else can I do? The only way to discover whether something can grow is to plant the seed and nurture it. Even the longest, most memorable campaigns begin in uncertainty. House of Worms started without a plan, without expectations, with nothing more than a handful of characters, a legendary setting, and a group of friends willing to see what might happen.

That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts.

So, I will gather my notes, pull some books off the shelf, and call my players to the table once again. We’ll roll some dice, sketch out some half-formed ideas, and take that first step into whatever new world awaits us. Maybe it will fall apart. Maybe it will thrive. I can’t know – not yet anyway. What I do know is that the only way to find out is to begin.

Maybe, one day, I’ll look back on what comes next and be just as proud.

Retrospective: Nephilim

I think anyone who's been deeply involved in the hobby of roleplaying games for any length of time will eventually come across a game with which they become obsessed – not necessarily because they actually play it but because the game's concept or presentation happen to strike an unexpected chord with him. Over the decades since I was initiated into this hobby, I've had several such games. The one I want to talk about in this post continues to be an object of fascination for me more than 30 years after its publication, both for its virtues and its flaws. It's a game that I think could have been bigger and more successful than it was, if only it hadn't been produced by Chaosium in the mid-90s, a time of particular turmoil for the venerable California game company.

The English version of Nephilim – I have never seen any of the French editions – appeared on the scene in 1994. Though sometimes compared (favorably or otherwise) to White Wolf's "World of Darkness" games for its superficial similarity, Nephilim was in fact distinct because of its deep immersion in real world occultism, esotericism, and philosophy. This fact probably played a role in its limited impact on the wider RPG scene at the time. At best, Nephilim was, no pun intended, a cult classic, admired by some for its unique vision and polarizing to others due to its complexity and mysticism. With the benefit of hindsight, Nephilim appears to be a game that feels both ahead of and constrained by its time, with an ambitious yet flawed attempt to merge the metaphysical with the game mechanical.

Nephilim places the players in the roles of titular Nephilim, powerful elemental spirits who have been reincarnating through human bodies for millennia. These beings seek enlightenment and ultimate mastery over magic, all while hiding from secret societies such as the Templars and other forces bent on suppressing their supernatural influence. The game draws heavily from esoteric traditions, like alchemy, the Kabbalah, astrology, and the Tarot, in order to create a setting that’s more intellectual than visceral. The world of Nephilim isn’t about heroics or adventure in the traditional sense, but about the slow, unfolding journey of self-discovery, spiritual awakening, and the management of hidden knowledge.

The beauty of this game lies in its depth. The Nephilim characters are not ordinary adventurers but beings of great power, constantly at odds with the limitations of human existence. Reincarnation plays a central role: your character may have lived many lives, across different times and places, and will continue to do so for eternity. This concept of eternal recurrence provides a wealth of roleplaying opportunities, as players are tasked with piecing together fragmented memories and uncovering truths hidden in past lives. This frame invites a certain kind of player, one interested in exploring questions about identity, morality, and immortality against the backdrop of occult mysticism.

However, this central conceit is also a double-edged sword. The complex background of the game, while rich, can feel inaccessible to players unfamiliar with occultism or those simply hoping for a more traditional fantasy adventure. Nephilim doesn’t offer the more traditional gratifications of slaying monsters and looting treasure; it instead asks players to navigate a web of arcane lore and hidden agendas, which can be overwhelming or unsatisfying for those unprepared for its slow pace.

The game’s mechanics are built around the Basic Role-Playing system, which was a wise choice, because it was familiar to fans of Call of Cthulhu and RuneQuest, both of whom might well be interested in the subject matter of Nephilim. However, the game doesn’t fully embrace the simplicity of BRP. Instead, it introduces several layers of complexity with its systems for magic, past lives, and the metaphysical forces known as Ka.

The Ka system is central to the game, representing the elemental forces that shape each Nephilim. It’s a fascinating concept that ties into character development and the use of magic, but it can also become a burden to manage. Characters must balance their elemental affinities, harnessing them to gain power or enlightenment, but doing so requires a deep understanding of the system. The Ka system, while thematically rich, often feels clunky and opaque, especially for players who are more accustomed to streamlined mechanics.

The magic system is similarly intricate. Divided into a series of occult sciences – alchemy, astrology, summoning, and more – each one presents unique rules, rituals, and challenges. While these magical systems offer a degree of customization, they can quickly overwhelm players. The complexity isn’t inherently a problem, but the lack of clear guidance on how to use these systems often leaves players floundering. Nephilim can thus feel like a game in search of a user manual, where the richness of its background material is undermined by the difficulty of navigating its rules.

Further, the game's character creation is a daunting process, involving past lives, elemental alignments, and a variety of other factors that require significant attention to detail. While this deep character customization can be incredibly rewarding for dedicated players, it can also be a barrier to entry. Newcomers may find themselves lost in the weeds of the system before even getting to the heart of the game.

One of Nephilim's strongest aspects is its presentation. The art and layout, while not groundbreaking by modern standards, exude a gothic, surreal quality that perfectly complements the game’s mystical themes. The illustrations are dark, moody, and evocative, which nicely complements the atmosphere of the game, even if they occasionally obscure the clarity of the text.

At the same time, Nephilim's presentation does suffer from the typical issues found in many early '90s RPGs, such as dense blocks of text, inconsistent layout, and a tendency to overload players with information without clear guidance. The mysticism that pervades the game is often reflected in the game’s writing style, which can occasionally veer toward the impenetrable. This is a game that assumes players are already familiar with esoteric traditions and it doesn’t always make the effort to ease new players into its complex world.

At its best, Nephilim offered a unique approach to supernatural-themed RPGs, one that blended philosophy, magic, and exploration in a way that was unusual at the time (and probably still is). The game's background is rich with possibility and its mechanics take a "contemplative" approach to character growth and development. For those willing to put in the effort to understand the system and immerse themselves in the game’s themes, Nephilim could offer a truly unique roleplaying experience.

Unfortunately, I suspect that rarely happened. Nephilim has a lot of flaws. The complexity of its rules and the obscure nature of its background material can, as I said, be off-putting for many players. Its occult focus, while a selling point for some, may feel inaccessible or even pretentious to others. The game is undoubtedly aimed at a niche audience – players willing to invest time in deciphering its symbolism and mastering its systems – which no doubt played a role in its inability to achieve broader appeal.

If Nephilim had received better and more consistent support from Chaosium, or perhaps a streamlined edition, it might have had a much greater impact on the RPG world. Instead, it remains a fascinatingly flaw relic of the 1990s. Nevertheless, I continue to be intrigued by it and hope that, one day, I might have the chance to do something with it. It's definitely a contender for the RPG with which I'd most love to referee a long campaign, even if the odds of that are unlikely.