Craving Vanilla

With the end of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign looming on the horizon, I’ve found myself increasingly entertaining thoughts about what I might referee next. This is, I suspect, a familiar experience for any long-term referee. When one campaign winds down, the imagination inevitably drifts toward the next one. What's perhaps less familiar – or at least less commonly admitted – is what my imagination is drifting toward right now. After nearly a decade refereeing a campaign set in one of the most distinctive and idiosyncratic settings in all of fantasy gaming, my thoughts are now turning toward something simpler and more familiar. 

A few years ago, I wrote a post in defense of “vanilla fantasy,” that oft-maligned category of fantasy assembled from a plethora of well-worn elements ripped bleeding from a wide variety of pop cultural sources. It's the sort of fantasy that offers elves and dwarves, orcs and dragons, populating a comfortable backdrop of castles, taverns, and ruined keeps to explore. In my original post, I argued that familiarity is not, in itself, a vice and that, much like vanilla ice cream, this style of fantasy can be delightful, provided it's well made.

I’ve been thinking about that post again recently, not in the abstract but in a more immediate sense. Refereeing Tékumel has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my gaming life. The world is rich and strange, filled with a secret history, believable cultures, and cosmic mysteries that continue to engage my players and me even after more than a decade of continuous play. But Tékumel is, undeniably, a demanding setting. Refereeing it requires a certain level of commitment, not just from me, but also from the players. There are fewer familiar touchstones. Every temple, every clan, every creature has to be introduced carefully (and often repeatedly) until everyone involved can differentiate the Golden Bough clan from the Golden Dawn clan and distinguish a Mrúr from a Shédra. Doing so has been a joyful labor, yes, but a labor nonetheless.

After so many years of that, I find myself looking at my large library of RPGs and thinking fondly of simpler pleasures. I don’t mean simple in the sense of dull or uninspired; I mean something that requires less instruction, less orientation – a world where the players already know what an elf is, what orcs are, and where a sword +1 is a treasured find. Something like The World of Greyhawk might fit the bill or even an original setting that proudly embraces the classical tropes of the genre. I'm thinking of a setting where there's no need to consult pronunciation guides or encyclopedic sourcebooks, because everyone already knows and understands it.

I suppose what I might be seeking is a kind of fantasy palate cleanser. After a long and satisfying feast of intricate, exotic fare, my appetite turns to something more basic – not because it’s better, but because it’s different, maybe even a little more easily digestible. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Just as you can grow weary of overly dense worldbuilding or settings so unique that they require a glossary, you can also find yourself longing for something familiar, something one can settle into without having to decode it first. There’s a reason so many of us fondly remember playing The Keep on the Borderlands or The Village of Hommlet: those were places you could walk into and start playing immediately, no lore dump required. There’s real value to that kind of immediacy.

The funny thing is that, after spending so long championing the offbeat and the obscure, I find myself needing to re-learn how to embrace the obvious. It’s actually surprisingly hard. I must admit to feeling a certain guilt about even pondering this, as if, by considering a campaign filled with orcs and magic swords, I might somehow regressed in my tastes or skills as a referee. That's nonsense, of course, but I feel it nonetheless. Vanilla isn’t bad; vanilla is foundational. It's the baseline against which everything else is judged. Like any flavor, it can be bland or brilliant depending on who’s mixing the ingredients.

To reiterate a point I've made before, I remind you of something a friend of mine said to me at Gamehole Con a few years ago. He and I were enjoying some locally made ice cream – Wisconsin takes these things seriously – and he remarked, “People think vanilla is plain, but that’s only because they’ve never had good vanilla.” I’ve never forgotten that. Sometimes, after wandering far and wide in the world of fantasy, what you really want is something straightforward, something honest, something that reminds you of why you fell in love with the genre in the first place.

I can't yet be certain what game I'll referee after the conclusion of House of Worms. The group has bandied around some ideas, but we haven't settled on anything just yet. Up until this week, I was pretty sure that, whatever it was, it'd something quirky, idiosyncratic, or otherwise off the beaten path. Now, I'm not so sure. Maybe instead it’ll be something with goblins in caves, mysterious towers in the swamp, and a one-eyed bandit lord menacing the kingdom from his hilltop fastness – because maybe, after all these years of luxuriating in the baroque splendors of ancient empires and alien, unknowable gods, I just want to spend a little time in a world where swords are swords, wizards wear pointy hats, and the map has a corner labeled “Here Be Dragons.”

I guess we'll see.

Campaign Updates: Reckonings

Apologies for not having kept up with updates from the three RPG campaigns I'm currently refereeing. I have been distracted by the triple threat of real life, working on the Secrets of sha-Arthan 'zine, and simply finding other topics worthy of extended interest. Consequently, I haven't written one of these posts in a couple of weeks. I will nevertheless attempt to keep the information below brief, which necessarily means leaving out (or not dwelling upon) some of the details.

Barrett's Raiders

The investigations at Fort Lee continue, starting with Lt. Cody, who decided to follow-up his previous digging by paying a visit to the base's Logistics Office. There, he attempted to make an appointment to see the officer in charge, Captain Reginald Tolen. Tolen was unavailable. Cody approached his assistant, Lt. Nolan Bennett, who set up an appointment for later that day. Bennett seemed concerned that Cody was part of "that liaison group that's been sniffing around" and that he might be looking for someone to blame for the loss of supplies. Bennett assured Cody that Tolen was "straight – probably too straight" and he was doing the best he could in a bad situation. Cody assured he wasn't here to railroad anyone; he just wanted some answers.

Later, Lt. Col. Orlowski and Sgt. McLeod were keeping an eye on their unit's vehicles, to be sure no one came by to look too closely at them. Throughout their time, they noticed that several MPs passed by and took a look in their direction, but were otherwise disinterested. On the other hand, they did notice that a younger officer (a lieutenant) wearing a Logistics insignia passed by several times in the course of a couple of hours. He was clearly watching them, but was doing a poor attempt to hide it. Later, conferring with Cody, they concluded the officer in question was Nolan Bennett.

While at the medical tent in the DCAZ with Vadim, Michael observed Elijah poking his head inside. He caught Michael's eye and asked, "Is Dutch here?" Michael told him no, but said he'd let him know that Elijah was looking for him. Eventually, Dutch goes to see him and Michael follows at a distance to determine if anything else is going on. Elijah worries that Dutch might think he's with New America; he assures him he's not. "You don't build the New Jerusalem out of bones and lies," he adds. He encourages Dutch to keep digging and says if he hears anything he'll pass it along. He also spots Michael, despite his efforts to hide. He approaches him, extends his hand, and introduces himself as Calvin Traynor "but folks round here started calling me Elijah and I didn't have the heart to disagree."

Cody's appointment with Captain Tolen revealed several avenues for investigation. Both water and gasoline are tight. Other supplies are better. The problem, he claims is twofold. One, security at the supply depot is lax. Tolen blamed the MPs and insinuated that Col. Kearns was hoping to manufacture problems as justification for a crackdown. Two, the convoys in and out of Fort Lee are chronically short – missing crate here, missing drum there. He wonders whether the problem originates in the base or outside it. Tolen then supplies Cody with records to help his investigation but admits that many are in poor order, since people had been used to doing a lot with computers before the war and they're struggling to go back to the old ways. Cody thanks him and heads out.

Dolmenwood

The characters continue to explore the chambers beneath the Shadholme Lodge. It soon becomes clear that Lord Gryphius Malbleat is planning to do something related to his long-dead ancestor, Wrygott Gnarlgruff, in whose honor the annual Hlerribuck festival is held. Previously, they had assumed that Gnarlgruff was somehow still alive, as their investigations in Faerie revealed what appeared to be correspondence between Gnarlgruff and Prince Mallowheart, a powerful fairy lord. Now, they're starting to think that the "Gnarlgruff" of that corrrespondence was Malbleat acting under a pseudonym – though there were other possibilities, as they soon learned.

During their explorations, they freed an old human man by the name of Farnham Ribblemead. Ribblemead explained that he had been kidnapped by Malbleat's servants to translate an ancient ritual from The Book of Foul Wonders. The ritual was a form of necromancy intended to raise Gnarlgruff from the dead under the command of Malbleat, who hoped to use his ancestor's sorcery for his own evil ends. However, to accomplish this, the ritual demanded, among other things, that it be accompanied by a song "sung by the most beautiful voice in the High Wold." That voice belonged to a young woman, also kidnapped by Malbleat, but whose current whereabouts Ribblemead did not know. "Most likely," he explained, "she's held somewhere at Redwraith Manor," but he couldn't be sure.

Since Ribblemead desperately wanted to leave the chambers where he was imprisoned, the characters did not linger much longer. However, they did spend some time poking around other rooms beneath the Lodge, as well as those above. With the exception of one room (the wine cellar) inhabited by a frightful spider-woman with human hands at the ends of its eight legs, they found little of immediate interest. The spider-woman caused them such fright and disgust that they fled the scene almost immediately and decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. They returned to Sir Clement's pavilion and prepared their next actions. 

There is one more day until the one when they believe Lord Malbleat will attempt the ritual Ribblemead described and there remains much to do in order to prevent him from succeeding.

House of Worms

After Eselné's speech in the Hall Unfurled Banners and Dhich'uné's response, all of Béy Sü is in turmoil. The great clans, the temples, and anyone else of any power or influence is hastily attempting to determine whom to support and how best to do so. While there are a few zealots among the various contending factions, most simply want to escape the unfolding chaos with their heads intact. It is now obvious that, one way or another, a reckoning is about to come upon Tsolyánu's capital city – and quite likely the Empire itself. 

As the characters pondered their own place within these events, Nebússa was met by Múresh hiQolyélmu, a member of his own Golden Bough clan, as well as the local chief of the Omnipotent Azure Legion. Nebússa, of course, already knew him, but his desire to talk was nevertheless notable. Múresh explained that Eselné's actions had disrupted their own plans for the upcoming Kólumejàlim. "Balances were already in place," he said, "The path was already clearing." Nebússa took this to mean that the OAL intended to fix the Choosing so that the "right" candidate – probably Táksuru – emerged victorious, though Múresh did not say this directly. Múresh also told Nebússa to be alert. If necessary, he should be prepared to make "a single cut, quiet and clean, before the whole loom comes down around us."

Grujúng received his orders from General Kéttukal, giving him command of the cohort of the First Legion that will attack the Temple of Belkhánu just before the next dawn. Kéttukal asked that Grujúng and anyone else who planned to join him make their way to the Palace of War as soon as possible so that they could be briefed on the ins and outs of the attack. Kirktá intended to join the attack, disguised as an ordinary soldier. His intention is to use the chaos of battle as an opportunity to loot the temple of anything he deems potentially valuable to current events. For that reason, he chose not to accompany Grujúng, lest his presence be detected too soon. After all, Kéttukal already made it clear that Kirktá would not be permitted anywhere near the temple.

Kirktá had other matters to attend to. He was informed that a delegation from the Temple of Dlamélish had come to see him. Initially, this made no sense, as he had no dealings with that temple whatsoever. However, others more versed in the intrigues of Tsolyáni politics understood that the delegation was, in fact, a cover for a visit from Princess Ma'ín, who'd recently thrown in her lot with Eselné. Ma'ín was her usual playful self, employing subtlety and innuendo rather than coming right to the point. In short order, though, it became clear what she really wanted to know was if Kirktá and his comrades were "plotting something clever – something dangerous." When Kirktá assured her he was not and that he was wholly behind Eselné's cause. "How disappointing," she declared. "You really are what you appear to be: a boring scholar."

She then left. Nebússa was very pleased. Kirktá had played his part well. 

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "Living in a Material World"

Issue #81 (January 1984) of Dragon included an article by Michael Dobson (whom I presume is the same Michael Dobson employed by TSR as an editor and writer between 1984 and 1987) entitled "Living in a Material World." As its subtitle makes clear, this article is intended to provide a system for dealing with the various material components spellcasters were expected to carry in order to work their magic. Likewise, Dobson notes that "material spell components add to the romance and realism of magic use, and somewhat restrict the power of spell casters." By my lights, this makes "Living in a Material World" about as paradigmatic an example of a Silver Age Dragon article as almost any I can imagine.

As to the content of the article itself, I can't deny that it's rather well done. Dobson is to be admired for his intestinal fortitude in providing a comprehensive accounting of all of AD&D's material spell components, including their costs, where they might be obtained, and their rarity. He then uses this information to provide the referee with the likelihood that various locales might have the components for which one is searching. There's a base chance, modified by rarity, the size of the locale in which one is searching, and other factors. It's actually a fairly easy system to use if you have the article handy, but one wonders why anyone would bother – at least I do (and did).

I want to be clear here: I don't begrudge anyone who finds dealing with such minutiae to be fun in their campaigns. Everyone has a slightly different notion of how much detail is "too much" and how much is "not enough." There's no single path to Verisimilitude. And I think, ultimately, that's my biggest beef with articles like this. They're part of a trend that D&D – and RPGs generally – adopted in the mid-80s that equated more detail with "better gaming." I don't deny that I've often indulged in more detail when I happened to like the topic in question, but material components have never been one of those topics.

They still aren't.

A Hobby, Not a Uniform

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have often commented on just how much RPG-related merchandise has proliferated in the decades since my youth. Walk into any convention, visit almost any local game shop, or browse any online storefront and you're certain to find a dizzying array of T-shirts, hoodies, pins, mugs, and other paraphernalia emblazoned with dragons, polyhedral dice, or cheeky slogans about hit points and saving throws. There are enamel pins shaped like D20s, gemstone dice that made from actual gemstones, and even baby clothes. For a lot of gamers, this is simply a natural extension of their passion, a way to carry a piece of the hobby with them wherever they go.

For me, a certified stick in the mud, it's something with which I've never really connected. In fact, it makes me cringe a little.

This probably sounds odd coming from someone who writes a blog devoted to roleplaying games. I’ve probably spent more time thinking and writing about these games than a lot of my fellow roleplayers –whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen – and I've never had any hesitation in discussing my hobby with others. In fact, I’ve generally found that when I do explain my interest in RPGs to non-gamers, most of them are curious, even enthusiastic. Roleplaying is an unusual hobby, to be sure, but thanks to decades of computer and video games, fantasy novels, and popular streaming shows, I think most people nowadays have some sense of what I'm talking about, even if they've never rolled a die in anger.

Despite this, I rarely wear T-shirts or any other apparel that advertises my involvement in the hobby – at least not publicly. I do own a handful of such things, of course, but I mostly wear them as sleep shirts. This isn't out of embarrassment. If I were embarrassed, I probably wouldn’t have spent so many years publicly documenting my thoughts on obscure RPGs, old AD&D modules, or the ins and outs of Tékumel. At my age, I’m quite comfortable with who I am and how I enjoy spending my free time. Even so, I don’t define myself by my hobbies, let alone feel the need to broadcast my interests in them through textiles.

This is a personal preference, of course. But I do find there’s something just a bit strange and even a little off-putting about wearing one's enthusiasms like a uniform. It can feel, at times, like a kind of branding, as though we’re walking billboards for our subcultures. I understand the appeal: there's comfort in signaling shared interests, especially in a world that, particularly in recent years, feels increasingly fragmented and alienating. For many people, these shirts and hats and pins are conversation starters or community badges, small ways of affirming, "These are my people. I belong here." I can respect that. I really do. It’s just not for me.

Perhaps it’s generational or maybe it’s the result of having come of age at a time when fandoms weren’t quite as performative or commercialized as they seem to have become. In my youth, being a roleplayer was something you did, not something you were, let alone something you wore. One's love of the game was expressed through carefully drawing up a dungeon map, creating a memorable character, or debating rules interpretations for hours with friends. The idea that there was any need to demonstrate one's investment through merchandise would have struck us as both odd and a little suspect, like someone claiming to be a film buff because he owned a Star Wars lunchbox.

That said, I understand that times change. The hobby has grown immensely and with that growth has come a broader cultural footprint. What was niche in my youth is now more mainstream, or at least adjacent to it. With mainstream success comes branding opportunities. That’s the nature of modern fandoms: they’re not just about shared interests anymore, but about "lifestyle" and, inevitably, commerce. A shirt isn’t just a shirt; it’s a signal, a declaration, a membership card.

Again, I’m not knocking anyone who enjoys that sort of thing. In its way, it’s another form of expression and one that clearly resonates with many. I suppose I’ve always preferred my interests to emerge through conversation rather than through outward signifiers like clothing. If someone asks me what I’m into, I’ll happily tell him as much about my hobbies (of which roleplaying is but one) as he'll allow me. Until then, I’m content to let my enthusiasms simmer quietly beneath the surface, where they can surprise and delight rather than shout for attention.

I suppose that’s the essence of it. Some people wear their fandoms on their sleeves – literally – and others keep them tucked away in their notebooks, their memories, and on their game shelves. Both are valid. As for me, I’ll stick to my plain shirts and quiet conversations. After all, a little mystery never hurt anyone.

Dice Advice

A couple of questions for my readers:

1. I'm looking into acquiring a new set of sharp-edged, precision dice of the kind I associate with Lou Zocchi. Unfortunately, acquiring a full set of Gamescience dice seems really difficult at the moment. With that in mind, can you recommend alternatives and, if so, vendors from whom I can buy them?
2. Most precision dice come un-inked these days. Can you recommend good ways to ink them, preferably ways that a middle-aged man with poor eyesight can undertake? 

Thanks!

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. 

REVIEW: Dragonbane

Last month, I mentioned that, because of the extended absence of a player in my ongoing Dolmenwood campaign, one of the other players offered to run a short adventure using Free League's Dragonbane rules. Despite my own deficiencies as a player, I welcomed this, both as a nice break from my own weekly refereeing duties and because I'd actually wanted to give Dragonbane a proper playtest. I've had a copy of the game for about two years and it wasn't until now that an opportunity to actually make use of it arose.

We concluded our playtest earlier this week and, as I expected I would, I had a great time. Originally, my intention was to write a short follow-up to the post linked above, in which I offered some further thoughts about the game. However, as I did so, I soon realized that my “short follow-up” was rapidly turning into something closer to full-on review, The result is what you're reading now, though be warned that this will be a somewhat idiosyncratic review based largely on my own interests rather a more "general" assessment of the game.

Case in point: I come at Dragonbane from the perspective of someone who's played a lot of Dungeons & Dragons over the decades. And while it's never been my system of choice, I also have a deep respect for Chaosium’s Basic Role-Playing, upon which Dragonbane's Swedish-language predecessor, Drakar och Demoner, was based. Consequently, I approached Dragonbane with a great deal of curiosity. I was eager to see how it would blend its BRP heritage with a more streamlined framework. After several sessions, I can confidently say Dragonbane delivers a fun, engaging experience that bridges the gap between D&D’s broad fantasy and BRP’s more grounded, skill-driven mechanics.

As I said, Dragonbane is built on the bones of Basic Role-Playing, a system known for its granular, skill-based mechanics. Free League, however, has distilled this foundation into something far lighter and more approachable, swapping BRP’s percentile dice for a d20-based system that might feel more familiar to D&D players. Character creation is quick: choose a kin (human, elf, dwarf, or even anthropomorphic creatures like wolfkin or mallard), a profession (knight, mage, artisan, etc.), and assign points to skills. Unlike the sometimes-fiddly process of building a Call of Cthulhu or RuneQuest character, Dragonbane keeps things brisk, almost rivaling old-school D&D’s straightforwardness even while retaining BRP’s emphasis on skills over character classes.

The core mechanic – roll a d20 under your skill or attribute score – will probably feel like second nature to BRP veterans, but the system’s boons and banes (the advantage/disadvantage mechanic that seems to be in every RPG these days) simplify modifiers in a way that keeps play moving. Opposed rolls and critical successes/failures add further depth without being overwhelming. For a D&D player, the shift from class-and-level progression to skill-based improvement is definitely a change. Even so, Dragonbane never feels too alien, aided not just by its use of d20 rolls but also its reliance on familiar fantasy archetypes (knights, rogues, mages, etc.).

One of Dragonbane’s most distinctive mechanical features is its use of willpower points. These function as a limited but flexible resource that can be spent to fuel both heroic abilities and spells or to reroll a failed skill check. I liked how this gave players a choice during play: burn a willpower point now to avoid a blunder or save it for a special combat move or spell later. It adds a welcome layer of resource management without being overly complex. 

Dragonbane thus feels both flexible and grounded. It lacks the sprawling feat trees or subclass options of, say, WotC-era Dungeons & Dragons, but compensates with a system that rewards player ingenuity. For some BRP fans, it's possible the game might seem too pared down. Where are the hit locations or complex magic systems of RuneQuest? But, for someone like me, more accustomed to D&D’s approach to these things, the streamlined rules felt right, emphasizing speed of play over simulationist detail.

As I noted in my earlier post, combat is where Dragonbane really shines and, as someone who often finds RPG combat a functional but unexciting necessity, I was glad of it. The system strikes a nice balance between simplicity and tactical depth, offering a dynamic experience that rivals D&D’s ease of use while avoiding the slog of overly complex BRP combat.

Each round, players draw initiative cards (reshuffled every round for unpredictability) and can move and act, with heroic abilities or even weapon choices allowing for creative flourishes. The card-based initiative is very simple and straightforward. Players can trade initiative or act out of turn in certain situations, which I found helps to keep everyone engaged. Combat maneuvers like disarming, grappling, or shoving provide further tactical options without requiring constant reference to the rulebook. Mechanics like morale checks and weapon durability add yet more stakes and flavor. For example, a critical hit includes the possibility of increased damage, ignoring armor, or gaining an additional attack.

Another feature I appreciated is the way Dragonbane distinguishes between monsters and NPCs. While NPCs use the same mechanics as player characters, monsters do not roll to attack. Instead, they act according to randomly determined behavior tables, intended to simplify referee workload and to reinforce the idea that monsters are unpredictable forces of nature. It’s an interesting design choice, but I'm not yet certain whether it works as well as intended. I'd need to play more to see how well it holds up to repeated use.

Compared to D&D and its descendants, where combat can feel like a regular cycle of attack rolls and spell slots, Dragonbane combat feels more unpredictable. Hit point totals are fairly low, which keeps fights brisk and the risk of injury or equipment failure makes every combat potentially deadly. BRP players will recognize the system’s DNA, but Dragonbane trims the fat, avoiding much of the bookkeeping that can bog down RuneQuest battles. The result is a combat system that’s both approachable and exciting, encouraging clever play without relying on too many subsystems or edge cases.

Dragonbane doesn’t come with a very detailed campaign setting of its own. Instead, its implied setting is gritty but evocative and seemed to me to take some inspiration from fairy tales (an impression born no doubt of its artwork, done by Johan Egerkrans, who also provided illustrations for the explicitly fairy tale-inspired Vaesen). The profession options suggest a world where heroism is hard-won, not guaranteed. Magic is potent but rare and monsters feel dangerous. This tone aligns more, I think, with games like RuneQuest than Dungeons & Dragons as it's often played, though the game seems flexible enough to handle varying degrees of character skill and power.

Free League’s production quality is, as usual, stellar. The rulebook included with the boxed set is relatively concise (112 pages) yet comprehensive. The set also includes dice, cards, and a second, 116-page book containing eleven sample adventures that can be strung together to form a campaign, making it a complete package for new players. Compared to a lot of RPGs these days, Dragonbane feels leaner and more focused, while still offering enough material to fuel a campaign. BRP fans accustomed to Chaosium’s dense rulebooks might find Dragonbane’s comparative brevity a relief.

In the end, I came away from our Dragonbane playtest impressed, not just by the mechanics, but by how much fun I had. It reminded me that a well-designed game doesn't need to be complex to offer meaningful choices and satisfying play. As someone who usually sits behind the referee’s screen, it was a pleasure to be a player again, especially in a system that hit such a sweet spot between familiarity and innovation. I’m glad I finally got to give Dragonbane a try and I hope I have the chance to return to it again in the future.

The First Proclamation of Renewal

By the Will of the Gods and the Right of the Sword, let all subjects of the Petal Throne hear and obey the words of Prince Eselné Tlakotáni,

O citizens of Béy Sü, Jewel of the Empire, Cradle of Dynasties, and Soul of the World:

For centuries we have called ourselves faithful and yet we have failed in our most sacred of duties.  

Ditlána, the Rite of Renewal, commanded by divine law to be undertaken every five hundred years, lies neglected. The gods wait – and we have made them wait too long. The city groans beneath the weight of that delay. Its bones are old. Its heart is still. Its walls are choked with silence and, within that silence, fester rot and blasphemy.

The Temple of Belkhánu, long a sanctuary of Stability and Repose, has become a shadowed fane for something older and far more terrible. There, beneath clouds of incense and threnodies to the honored dead, the foul cult of the One Other has taken root – tended not by outlaws, but by priests masked in reverence and armored in tradition.

Therefore, the Temple of Belkhánu in this city shall be the first to fall. Stone by stone; beam by beam.

Its relics, if true, shall be preserved.

Its servants, if loyal to the gods and the Petal Throne, shall be spared.

Its hidden masters shall be cast down and scattered.

Let this be the first hammer-blow in the long-overdue renewal of Béy Sü.

This is not sacrilege. This is not conquest. This is not vengeance.

This is obedience to the will of the gods and the cycle of centuries.

This is the sword raised to purify.

This is Ditlána.

Let the traitors wail. Let the halls of power tremble if they must – but the city will be reborn.

The Empire will be reborn.

The gods will not be mocked, nor will their patience last forever.

Let the banners fly. Let the fires burn. Let those who love Tsolyánu stand and be counted.

Thus speaks the Sword of Judgment. Thus speaks Eselné.

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "Setting Saintly Standards"

"Setting Saintly Standards" from issue #79 (November 1983) exemplifies two of the worst aspects of D&D: a mania for quantifying everything combined with forgetfulness about the game's origins. Written by Scott Bennie, the article to provide a system "for defining sainthood [and] classifying the precise abilities or capabilities of a saint." Saints, Bennie notes, are mentioned several times in passing in the Dungeon Masters Guide (the Mace of St. Cuthbert being the most notable), but what saints are and what purpose they serve is never explained. Bennie is correct so far as he goes. What he forgets (or is unaware of) is that Gary Gygax provided some good evidence as to the nature of saints back in an issue of The Strategic Review where he talks about alignment. There, saints are exemplars of Lawful Goodness, just as devils are exemplars of Lawful Evilness and demons exemplars of Chaotic Evilness. While AD&D provided lots of information on devils and demons, saints get no similar treatment (neither do "godlings," but no one seems to care about them for some reason).

That's where "Setting Saintly Standards" steps in. Bennie proposes that saints are special servants of the gods who've achieved immortality and some measure of divine power. He makes them on par with Greyhawk's "quasi-deities" like Murlynd or Keoghtom, but explicitly tied to a specific deity, whom they serve and whose cause they promote. The article lays out their spell-like abilities and offers four examples of saints from his own campaign to give the referee some idea of how to create saints of his own. He likewise suggests that some saints -- "patron saints" -- may have shrines dedicated to them and, over time, achieve sufficient power to become demigods in their own right. Exactly what this means for relations between the saint, his followers, and the deity he ostensibly serves is never discussed.

I'm on record as intensely disliking the reduction of gods and semi-divine beings to game stats. It's not for nothing that I dislike both Gods, Demigods & Heroes and Deities & Demigods. One of D&D's worst failings is its reductionism, its voracious appetite to turn everything into either a monster to be killed or a piece of magical technology to be wielded. Saints, as Bennie imagines them, are just big monsters -- or little gods -- to be confronted rather than anything more sublime. Maybe I'd be less bothered by this if he'd have adopted another term for what he's presenting; I don't think the idea of fighting gods is necessarily out of bounds. For certain styles of fantasy, it's even highly appropriate. But saint has a very specific meaning and Gygax's mention of them is almost certainly tied up in the implicit Christianity of early gaming.

Late 1983, though, was a long distance away from 1974, though, and the culture of the hobby had changed. What to Gygax had seemed obvious was now in need of explication and not just explication but expansion. That's why Bennie broadens the use of the term "saint" to include the servants of any god, not just Lawful Good ones. Thus we have St. Kargoth, a fallen paladin, among the four examples he provides us. To say that the idea of an "anti-saint" or "dark saint" is bizarre to me is an understatement. Mind you, I find the idea of non-Lawful Good paladins similarly bizarre, so clearly I'm out of step with a lot of gamers, no that this is any surprise.