Rich and Creamy

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

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

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

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

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

Things That Go Bump in the Decade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traveller Distinctives: World Generation

When GDW released Traveller in 1977, it stood apart from other roleplaying games of the time in several important ways. Most notably, it was not a fantasy game. It didn’t rely on the tropes of sword and sorcery or draw inspiration from the likes of Robert E. Howard or J.R.R. Tolkien. Instead, Traveller presented a vast, impersonal universe of interstellar trade, mercenary tickets, and political intrigue. Perhaps even more significant than its subject matter, however, was its approach to setting creation. Traveller’s world generation system, unlike the improvisational or campaign-specific methods typical of Dungeons & Dragons, was systematic, abstract, and procedurally expansive, offering something genuinely new in RPG design.

At a time when most referees were painstakingly handcrafting maps, cities, and dungeons for their games, Traveller provided a straightforward but elegant toolset for generating entire subsectors of space, one hex at a time. As outlined in Book 3 of the original boxed set, aptly titled Worlds and Adventures, each world was reduced to a Universal World Profile (UWP), a concise string of alphanumeric codes representing atmosphere, population, government type, law level, and more. Though cryptic at first glance, these codes become, in practice, powerful spurs to creativity, prompting referees to extrapolate complex social and environmental conditions from simple numeric entries.

Even before the first session began, Traveller encouraged the referee to engage in a kind of solitary, exploratory “play.” Generating worlds, assigning trade classifications, and mapping out political and economic relationships quickly becomes an absorbing exercise in its own right, as any long-time Traveller referee can attest. Indeed, it's a major part of the game's fun. Rather than merely preparing background details, the referee is, in effect, discovering the setting as he rolls the dice. The process became a kind of solo game, one where the rules and randomness combined to yield an emergent and unpredictable sector of space – varied, dynamic, and rich with potential for adventure.

The UWP itself is a marvel of minimalist design. Each digit or letter conveys essential information about a world, but does so in a way that suggests deeper histories, social structures, and gameplay consequences. A high-tech world with a low law level and a major starport hints at a bustling, semi-legal trade hub teeming with intrigue. A planet with a corrosive atmosphere and feudal government might suggest dying aristocracies clinging to power amidst environmental collapse. The referee is handed the bare bones of a world, but the system demands logical extrapolation for understanding, making worldbuilding a disciplined act of imaginative interpretation.

In contrast to the tendency of Dungeons & Dragons toward medieval pastiche, Traveller offers fewer cultural defaults. The worlds it generates are often strange, uneven, and wildly diverse in terms of tech level, population, and governance, even when separated by only a single parsec. This patchwork character isn’t a flaw. Instead, it suggests a galaxy shaped by ancient collapses, forgotten wars, and the long, staggered climb of civilization across the stars. The system invites referees to consider not just planetary conditions, but also their histories and interrelations.

Crucially, Traveller’s world generation is not mere flavor text. It directly informs core gameplay systems: trade tables, starship design, navigation, and random encounters all hinge, to varying degrees, on the specifics of a world’s UWP. A character’s ability to turn a profit, refuel a ship, or avoid entanglement with the authorities likewise depends on the values generated for each planet. The setting is not simply a backdrop, but a source of friction and consequence. Logistics and environment shape player choices in a more concrete and procedural way than in early Dungeons & Dragons (or arguably in any version of it).

This interdependence gives real weight to the act of, well, traveling from world to world across a subsector hex map. Jumping into a new system is never a formality; it’s a calculated risk. Will there be fuel available? Is the local government welcoming or hostile? Can the party offload its cargo for a profit or will they be detained and searched upon landing? The interconnected nature of the world generation tables feeds into a broader gameplay loop, rewarding both strategic planning and seat-of-your-pants improvisation.

Where early D&D encouraged a bottom-up style of worldbuilding – start with a dungeon, add a nearby village, and let the world expand outward through play – Traveller supports and even rewards a top-down approach. A referee could generate an entire subsector before the players had even rolled up their characters. This inversion suggests a different philosophy of play, one less concerned with "zero to hero" advancement and more focused on navigation (literal and figurative) through a complex and often indifferent universe.

It’s also worth emphasizing that the original 1977 edition of Traveller came with no predefined setting. The now-iconic Third Imperium, with which the game would later become closely associated, didn’t appear until 1979’s The Spinward Marches. Initially, the game offered only methods and tools for generating one’s own interstellar polities, trade routes, and points of conflict. That openness was deliberate. It invited referees to craft their own empires, borderlands, pirate nests, and forgotten colonies. Because of the inherent randomness in the system, even the referee could be surprised by what emerged, lending the process an exploratory thrill that echoed the game’s broader focus.

This is why I consider Traveller’s world generation system not only one of its most distinctive features, but a landmark in early RPG design. With nothing more than a few tables and a handful of dice, a referee could conjure up entire regions of space that are structured, coherent, and teeming with possibility. More than that, the system reflects and reinforces the thematic core of the game itself: a universe not of dungeons and dragons, but of distance, data, and discovery. Nearly fifty years later, it remains unmatched for its combination of utility and elegance.

The Hidden Masters of Pulp Fantasy

One of the regular series for which this blog was once known is Pulp Fantasy Library, in which I highlighted individual fantasy and science fiction stories I felt had been influential, directly or indirectly, on the development of the hobby of roleplaying. The series eventually grew to more than three hundred entries and taught me a great deal in the process of writing it. However, it also required considerable effort and often received little reader engagement, so I brought it to a quiet close in 2023. I sometimes consider reviving it in a modified form, but I’ve yet to find the right approach. Still, I keep thinking about these early works of fantasy, which is what led to this post.

From the vantage point of the first quarter (!) of the twenty-first century, it’s all too easy to forget just how strange fantasy and science fiction once were – not merely in their imaginative content but in the intellectual and spiritual traditions from which they drew. We tend to think of early speculative fiction as arising primarily from a matrix of adventure tales, scientific romances, and classical mythology. However, another powerful and often overlooked influence is the world of Spiritualism, Theosophy, and other esoteric traditions. These weren’t mere fads in the late 19th and early 20th centuries; they were serious systems of belief for many, including a surprising number of the authors who helped lay the foundations of what we now call genre fiction.

Even more fascinating is how many once-occult concepts have since become commonplaces of fantasy and science fiction, like astral projection, past lives, lost advanced civilizations, invisible planes of existence, and cosmic cycles of spiritual evolution, to name just a few obvious ones. These weren’t originally the products of scientific or rationalist speculation. They were occult doctrines, often articulated with the structure and certainty of any other religion. Early speculative fiction served as a powerful conduit for these ideas, transmitting them into the cultural imagination.

Take, for instance, astral projection, which recurs throughout pulp fantasy and science fiction. In Theosophy, this is the “etheric body” or “etheric double” leaving the physical body to traverse the astral plane. In fiction, this idea becomes John Carter’s unexplained voyage to Barsoom in A Princess of Mars, where his body remains behind on Earth while his spirit is transported to another world by sheer force of will. Burroughs never offers a scientific explanation for the phenomenon nor did he need to do so. His readers would likely have recognized the trope from already extant popular occult literature.

Similarly, reincarnation and karma, central tenets of Theosophy and many forms of Eastern-influenced Spiritualism, appear in the works of authors like Talbot Mundy, whose protagonists sometimes recall past lives in ancient empires. The same is true of many tales penned by Abraham Merritt. In The Star Rover, Jack London tells the story of a prisoner who escapes his unjust physical confinement by entering trance states that allow him to access a series of former incarnations. This isn’t merely a fictional conceit; it reflects a specific metaphysical worldview in which human identity unfolds across many lifetimes, a view that gained traction during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Even readers who didn’t share this worldview would nevertheless have been familiar with it.

William Hope Hodgson is another fascinating case. He blends arcane science with mystical speculation in his "Carnacki the Ghost-Finder" stories, which feature protective sigils, vibrational zones, and references to the "Outer Circle," a realm inhabited by malevolent entities existing just beyond human perception. All of these ideas draw heavily on contemporary occultism. His novel The Night Land, a work of science fantasy more than horror, is set on a dying Earth haunted by monstrous spiritual forces and saturated with the oppressive weight of cosmic time. It echoes Theosophical doctrines of vast evolutionary cycles and the occult preoccupation with psychic resistance to spiritual evil.

Marie Corelli (born Mary Mackay), once one of the most popular authors in the English-speaking world, is now rarely read. Her novel, A Romance of Two Worlds, for example, blends Spiritualist belief with melodrama and science fictional concepts, such as portraying electricity as a bridge between the material and spiritual realms. She directly influenced writers like H. Rider Haggard and even Arthur Machen, both of whom in turn shaped the subsequent development of fantasy. Even Edward Bulwer-Lytton, now best known for the infamous incipit “It was a dark and stormy night,” was a serious student of esoteric lore. His novel Zanoni depicts an immortal Chaldean adept who achieves transcendence through secret knowledge, an early example of the “hidden masters” who would later become a staple of Theosophy.

Which, of course, brings us to Theosophy itself, which had perhaps the most lasting and far-reaching impact on the development of both esoteric thought and fantasy. Founded in the 1870s by the Russian-born mystic, Helena Blavatsky, Theosophy combined elements of Hinduism, Buddhism, Neoplatonism, and esoteric Christianity into a vast occult cosmology. Through books, journals, and lectures, it promoted a view of the universe in which mankind was but one phase in an immense spiritual drama, involving lost continents, ascended masters, and ancient wisdom. These ideas found fertile ground in genre fiction. The controversial “Shaver Mystery” stories published in Amazing Stories in the mid to late 1940s and purportedly based on true events involve ancient subterranean races like the evil Deros (which itself served as an inspiration to Gary Gygax). Shaver's stories read like Theosophy blended with pulp sensationalism.

Even Clark Ashton Smith, whom regular readers will know is my favorite of the Weird Tales trio, drew on esoteric themes. Ideas like cyclical time, forgotten civilizations, and arcane knowledge recur throughout his work. His Zothique cycle, set on the last continent of a dying Earth, reflects the Theosophical notion of a future “seventh root race” and the eventual exhaustion of history.

Against this background, H.P. Lovecraft stands out, not because he rejected religion in general (though he did), but because he specifically targeted Spiritualism and occultism. He was deeply familiar with the claims of mediums, astrologers, and Theosophists and dismissed them with open contempt. In his correspondence, he regularly mocks the “credulous” who place faith in séances, reincarnation, and similar beliefs. At the behest of Harry Houdini, Lovecraft even collaborated on a book titled The Cancer of Superstition, intended as a wholesale debunking of Spiritualist claims. The book was never completed due to Houdini’s sudden death in 1926.

Despite this, Lovecraft’s stories are filled with forbidden books, lost knowledge, and ancient alien races whose truths are too terrible for the human mind to bear. In this way, Lovecraft doesn’t discard the tropes of occult literature – he inverts them. Where Theosophy promised spiritual enlightenment and cosmic unity, Lovecraft offers only madness, degeneration, and a universe that is not merely indifferent but actively hostile to notions of human significance. His “gods” are not hidden masters but incomprehensible and uncaring forces. Structurally, however, he preserves much of the occult worldview: a hidden reality lurks behind the surface of things, accessible only to initiates – scholars, madmen, and cultists. Lovecraft didn’t reject that structure; he twisted it and filled it with dread.

All of this makes it remarkable just how thoroughly modern fantasy and science fiction still bear the imprint of these early occult influences. Astral travel, alternate planes, soul transference, hidden masters, and cosmic cycles remain staples of the genres. They’re treated today as neutral, even secular, tropes of worldbuilding, even though their origins are anything but secular. They are spiritual, mystical, and often explicitly religious in intent.

My purpose in this post isn't to diminish these genres or to reduce their works to a list of influences. Nor am I offering an invitation to embrace the esoteric as literal truth. Instead, I'm reminding everyone of just how permeable the boundary between belief and imagination has always been and how fantasy, in particular, has long served as a vessel for metaphysical speculation, even when dressed in the garb of swords and sorcery or rocket ships and ray guns. Perhaps this is one of the reasons these genres endure: they don’t merely entertain; they echo the ancient human desire to find meaning in a world that so often seems devoid of it.

Retrospective: Alien Module 7: Hivers

By the time Alien Module 7: Hivers was published in 1986, the Traveller role-playing game was approaching its tenth anniversary. Game Designers’ Workshop (GDW) already had a great deal of experience in producing sourcebooks to the major alien races of the Third Imperium, producing some of the line’s most inventive and distinctive supplements. The Hivers, among the most enigmatic of Traveller’s aliens were a natural fit for this deep-dive treatment. Their inscrutable nature and radical departure from humanoid norms demanded a module that could capture their alien essence while expanding the possibilities of the game itself.

Unlike the Vargr, with their wolf-pack dynamics dressed in science-fictional trappings, or the Aslan, who embodied the archetype of the "proud warrior race," the Hivers defied easy categorization. They were, in a word, strange – non-humanoid, non-violent, intellectually aloof, and relentlessly meddlesome. Their radial, starfish-like physiology and their communication through color changes and body posture evoked a biology more akin to deep-sea creatures than traditional sci-fi aliens. Their penchant for subtle, centuries-long manipulation of other species felt like something drawn from the cosmic visions of Olaf Stapledon or the surreal imaginings of Cordwainer Smith (even though the book openly admits the debt owed to Larry Niven’s Pierson’s Puppeteers and Outsiders). Despite this, the Hivers were a wholly unique creation, their oddity amplified by a psychology that prioritized intricate social engineering over direct action.

The success of Alien Module 7: Hivers in giving shape and substance to such an unconventional species is a testament to the talents of its principal authors: William H. Keith, J. Andrew Keith, Loren Wiseman, and Traveller creator Marc Miller. Structured like its predecessors, the module is divided into sections covering history, physiology, psychology, society, technology, along with rules for generating Hiver characters. Yet what immediately sets it apart is how bizarre its subject matter is. The Hivers are not “rubber suit” aliens defined by a single cultural quirk. Their biology is profoundly non-human: they reproduce almost accidentally without pair bonding or even emotional investment, communicate via mechanisms no human could intuitively grasp, and perceive the universe through a lens shaped by their intense curiosity. Their society, too, defies familiar models. Rather than being organized around governments or hierarchies, Hiver civilization is a loose tapestry of individuals pursuing esoteric, often opaque "topics" – long-term investigations that might span centuries and often involve subtly steering entire civilizations toward particular ends. One cannot help but draw comparisons to the Bene Gesserit of Dune, with their millennia-spanning schemes or even Lovecraft’s Elder Things, with whom the Hivers share a faint physical resemblance, though without the malice or cosmic horror.

What further distinguishes Hivers from earlier Alien Modules is its refusal to reduce its subject to easily digestible tropes. The Hivers are not warriors, traders, or pirates; they are manipulators, schemers, and architects of destiny. Their commitment to nonviolence is not a weakness but a cornerstone of their civilization, shaping their every interaction. They are not pacifists in the conventional sense but they are deeply opposed to overt conflict, preferring to neutralize threats through careful, almost surgical social redesign. The module provides a vivid example of this approach in their centuries-long maneuvering against the K’kree, their militant, herbivorous neighbors, a species almost as alien to human eyes as themselves. 

As presented, a campaign involving the Hivers is unlikely to revolve around the familiar beats of firefights, starship chases, or planetary exploration. Instead, it gestures toward something slower and subtler: espionage, cultural subversion, and interstellar diplomacy of a particularly insidious kind. However, this is also where the module falters. While it does provide broad advice on running Hiver-centric adventures, it rarely offers the kinds of concrete examples that would help a referee bring these high-concept scenarios to life at the table. The included adventure, “Something Stinks!,” is brief and unmemorable, more a sketch than a scenario and one that never quite demonstrates how to make the Hivers’ unique qualities matter in play. This is a common flaw in the Alien Module series: strong ideas paired with underdeveloped tools for implementation.

That said, one of the book's more subtle successes lies in how it situates its subject within the wider Traveller setting without dulling their strangeness. The Hivers’ influence on the Imperium is indirect but pervasive, shaping events from the shadows through trade agreements, cultural shifts, and strategic nudges – at least, that’s what they’d like you to believe. This ambiguity is where the module’s potential becomes most intriguing. The Hivers are not just another species; they are potentially a vehicle for a different kind of science fiction roleplaying, one that rewards speculation, inference, and even conspiracy-minded thinking. The fact that they remain difficult to grasp even after 48 pages of focused attention feels less like a failure and more like a feature, though one that may frustrate as often as it inspires.

In the end, Alien Module 7: Hivers is an ambitious but uneven entry in the Traveller canon. It introduces a compellingly alien species with a richly imagined culture and worldview, yet it struggles to translate that material into content easily usable in play. The ideas are strong and the writing imaginative, but too often the referee is left to do the heavy lifting. Still, for those intrigued by the prospect of a campaign built around manipulation, subtlety, and long-term consequences, the module offers a tantalizing foundation. Like the Hivers themselves, it prefers to hint and suggest rather than declare outright. Whether that is a strength or a weakness will depend on the kind of game you wish to run.

Smoke Rings and Sorcery: An Ode to Wormy

Among the many delights of flipping through issues of Dragon magazine from my youth is getting the chance to see Dave Trampier's Wormy comic strip once again. Long before I was conscious of the names of any of the artists who appeared in my favorite RPG products, I knew Wormy. Even among the clutter of rules variants, advertisements, fiction, and the occasionally bombastic editorials that defined Dragon during the years when I most avidly read it, Wormy stood out, in large part because it was so strange. It was a peculiar, beautiful little world unto itself, filled with pool-playing dragons, cigar-chomping ogres, and an imp who spoke with the laid-back confidence of a veteran hustler. It was, in short, utterly unlike anything else in the pages of Dragon and it fascinated me – in large part because I didn't fully understand it or its continuing storyline, having picked it up many issues after it first began.

Wormy's debut (in issue #9, September 1977) occurred when Dragon was still very much in its formative years. Indeed, the hobby of roleplaying itself was barely out of its own infancy and TSR’s flagship magazine was still trying to figure out what kind of publication it wanted to be. Early issues mixed game material with essays, fiction, and humor. Comics became a regular feature before long, with J.D. Webster's Finieous Fingers being one of the more well-known of the bunch, even though it ended its run about a year before I started reading Dragon. But Wormy stood out as something different. It was never simply an in-joke for gamers nor a gag strip loosely inspired by fantasy tropes. Instead, it presented a fully realized fantasy world rendered in lush color and with a distinct artistic sensibility.

What immediately set Wormy apart was, of course, Trampier’s art. Nowadays, we all celebrate Trampier from his iconic work on the AD&D Player’s Handbook and the Dungeon Master’s Screen. His style is clean, expressive and rich in texture and character. Wormy carried those same qualities into serialized comic form, but with an added flourish of visual wit and playfulness. The strip was never slapdash or haphazard. Trampier’s panels were packed with detail, his character designs expressive, his linework confident. Each page was a feast for the eyes and even when the plot meandered a bit (as it regularly did), the visuals carried the reader along to such an extent that he didn't care. I know I didn't, even though, as I said, it wasn't always clear to my younger self just what was happening in many installments.

The tone of the strip is one of its greatest charms. Wormy is unquestionably fantasy, but it’s fantasy as seen through a haze of cigar smoke and the low hum of a barroom pool table. Its characters speak in a colloquial American idiom that lends the strip a grounded, personable quality. One never gets the sense that Wormy or Ace or the ogres and trolls with whom he shares his world are interested in epic quests or noble deeds. They’re more likely to be plotting a scam, hustling a demon, or arguing about who’s buying the next round. This sense of the fantastical-as-everyday-life gives Wormy much of its charm and humor, not to mention its distinctiveness from the other comics that appeared alongside it in Dragon. 

In this, Wormy mirrors the culture of early roleplaying itself. The early hobby, as reflected in the pages of Dragon, was a strange admixture of wargamers, fantasy and science fiction fans, history buffs, and countercultural weirdos. This was a time before fantasy had hardened into genre orthodoxy, when anything could happen and often did. The world Trampier presented in Wormy feels like a campaign gone delightfully off the rails: a sandbox setting where the players long ago stopped caring about the dungeon and are now embroiled in a decades-long tavern brawl. For me, that was a big part of what I found so compelling about Wormy. It was so unlike my then-narrow conception of "fantasy" that I couldn't help but keep reading.

Over time, Trampier introduced a larger story into the strip. There were plots and schemes in motion and strange characters lurking just out of frame. Readers were teased with glimpses of the larger world beyond Wormy’s abode and the smoky dens of the trolls. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Wormy vanished. Trampier’s final installment appeared in Dragon #132 (April 1988), ending mid-story. He never offered a public explanation. Other than the following, which appeared in issue #136 (August 1988), TSR never provided an explanation for what had happened:

Wormy, along with its creator, David Trampier, vanished without a trace.

This abrupt disappearance only deepened the comic strip’s allure. In the years that followed, fans spun wild theories: Was Trampier dead? Had he severed all ties with the gaming world? Or was it something darker? For decades, the mystery endured, unanswered. Then, in 2002, word emerged that Trampier was alive, living a quiet life in southern Illinois as a taxi driver. He had steadfastly declined all invitations to return to art or gaming until 2014, when he agreed to showcase some of his original artwork at a local Illinois game convention. Tragically, just three weeks before the event, he died suddenly at age 59.

In hindsight, Wormy feels like a microcosm of an entire era in fantasy gaming, a time that was raw, personal, and unapologetically chaotic. The strip was a labor of love, brimming with anarchic energy, improvisational flair, and unfiltered creativity. Like the Dragon magazine of its heyday, Wormy was gloriously messy, fiercely idiosyncratic, and utterly brilliant in its refusal to conform or explain itself.

As the hobby grows ever more polished and commercialized, Wormy stands as a vibrant reminder of its roots, a time when oddballs and iconoclasts like Trampier defined its spirit. More than a relic, Wormy embodies the untamed passion and fearless imagination of those who dared to be unapologetically strange. It captures a moment when the heart of gaming pulsed with individuality, free from the gloss of corporate agendas.

Whenever I leaf through old issues of Dragon, I find myself missing Wormy – not just the comic, but what it stood for: the spirit of unfiltered creativity, the joy of irreverence, and the beautiful imperfections of a world made by and for dreamers. In remembering Wormy, we remember that the true magic of roleplaying lies not in polished production values or grand designs, but in the bold, eccentric, and often messy adventures we undertake with one another .

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "How to Finish Fights Faster"

Along with falling damage, psionics, and alignment, articles about unarmed combat were a commonplace in the pages of Dragon during the years when I subscribed to that venerable gaming magazine. There's probably a reason for that: unarmed combat in AD&D was, in my experience, pretty much universally admitted to be unusable as written, a fact even Gary Gygax acknowledged on more than one occasion. Despite that, no single alternative system ever really took root, with most referees employing a welter of different approaches, some based on the official system, some based on earlier articles from Dragon, and some created whole cloth. That's what playing D&D was like during my formative years in the hobby -- a crazy mix of stuff all drawing inspiration from the same base and then running off in whatever direction one deemed most fun. Consequently, I can't help but chuckle at all the folks decrying the existence of "so many retro-clones," since, to my way of thinking, what we have now is pretty much what we've always had. The only difference is that, nowadays, it's easy to print up, prettify, and sell your interpretation of D&D to others, whereas, in the past, each referee had a photocopies and stapled collection of house rules he shared with anyone willing to listen.

Perhaps because no single alternative to AD&D's execrable rules emerged, it was inevitable that the redoubtable Roger E. Moore would eventually offer his own unarmed combat system. His article, "How to Finish Fights Faster," appeared in issue #83 (March 1984) and takes up only four pages, one of them being a humorous illustration of four rotund halflings attempting to bring down an eyepatch-wearing humanoid, who looks more annoyed than inconvenienced by his diminutive opponents. Moore divides unarmed combat up into three modes: pummeling, kicking, and grappling. Pummeling is straight up fisticuffs, with or without the use of aids, like dagger pommels or metal gauntlets. Kicking is, well, kicking and grappling is attacking to subdue. All three modes are fairly simple to use, working more or less like the normal AD&D combat system but with certain modifiers and special cases unique to them. This is particularly true of grappling, which has a number of different moves detailed, each of which has further modifiers and effects.

I never used Moore's system, so I can't comment on how well it plays in practice. I suspect it probably works better than AD&D's official system, but not as well as others. I say that, because it includes a lot of specificity in certain areas (grappling, for example) that necessitates either a good memory or referring to the article to adjudicate. That's not a bad thing in itself; there are lots of rules in D&D that require reference to a rulebook to handle. However, I'll admit that I find it baffling that unarmed combat rules so often wind up being much more complicated than armed combat. Why is it that we can accept that all it takes to adjudicate an armored fighting man's attack against an opponent is a 1D20 roll compared to a chart, followed by a damage roll if successful but we demand saving throws and percentage chances and so forth if he wants to throw a punch or wrestle someone to the ground?

The Paradox of Popularity

A family member recently returned from an extended trip abroad and our conversation about her experiences got me thinking about the strange (and, in fact, melancholy) fate of popular tourist destinations. Travelers seek these places out because they're unusual, striking, even mysterious. They promise something rare or difficult to find elsewhere. However, the act of going there, especially in large numbers, begins to erode the very qualities that made them appealing in the first place. A scenic, secluded village becomes a commercialized maze of souvenir shops. A beautiful natural site is hemmed in by railings, signage, and crowds. A place that once felt secret or sacred now feels almost contrived, curated, or even artificial.

Whether we like it or not, popularity changes things.

This paradox – the destruction of uniqueness through attention – is not limited to travel. Grumpy old man that I am, I’ve long wondered if the same thing hasn’t happened to our shared hobby of roleplaying, especially in recent years.

When I first discovered Dungeons & Dragons over the Christmas break of 1979, the game was still pretty obscure, though it had become a little less so in the aftermath of the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III in August of that same year. The blue rulebook I rescued from the hall linen closet had almost the air of a grimoire. What advice it offered me as a newcomer was sparse and scattered across its 48 pages, requiring careful study and a lot of inference. Most people I knew at the time had never heard of a "roleplaying game" and, thanks to the aforementioned "steam tunnels incident," those who had regarded it with a combination of confusion and mild suspicion. Because of this, there was a strong feeling among my friends and I that we were discovering something odd and special. Gathering in one another's basements, we did our best to piece together an understanding of this new hobby from obscure rulebooks, rumors, and the occasional older kid who claimed to know how it all worked. The end result was messy, anarchic – and thrilling.

Over the decades, especially in the last few years, RPGs seem to have become much more mainstream. Celebrities openly talk about playing them. Big box stores carry them. There’s an abundance of support material, both official and unofficial. Rules are more clearly presented. The art is slick. Everyone seems to have a better idea of what a roleplaying game is. Dungeons & Dragons is now a brand name in every sense. On the whole, this is a good thing: more people are playing, and that means a larger pool from which to draw new players. But I’d be lying if I said the hobby still feels quite the same as it did before it achieved its current level of popularity.

What was once a secret door into another world is now a well-lit, signposted thoroughfare. The sense of personal discovery, the need to make rather than simply consume, feels less urgent. Much of the weirdness, the danger, the raw possibility that drew me in has been sanded down in exchange for broader appeal. It's easier than ever to play, but in some ways harder to find that old spark that made it feel so alive.

I don’t mean this simply as a condemnation, but rather as a recognition of the very real cost of popularity. Something rare becomes common; something personal becomes cultural property. There’s nothing sinister in this, only inevitable change. The same pattern plays out again and again, whether in travel, music, or games. Once you’ve found something wonderful, it’s only a matter of time before others find it too and the thing begins to change, often to the point that it's no longer the thing you fell in love with in the first place.

For those of us who remember the early days (or who simply seek to emulate them), it can feel like returning to a once-sleepy village only to find it transformed into a bustling tourist trap. The outlines are familiar, but the mood has shifted. The magic isn’t gone entirely, of course, but it’s harder to reach, buried beneath the noise and polish.

Still, it can be found. In a quiet moment around the table. In a forgotten module pulled from a forgotten shelf. In the laughter of friends lost in a world of their own making. The secret may no longer be hidden, but the joy of discovery remains – for those willing to look past the railings and the signage.

So It Begins

While I am fortunate in having plenty of ideas for posts to write, I nevertheless do appreciate it when readers make suggestions to me of topics they'd like to see discussed. Last week, in a comment to a previous post, I was asked the following: 

James, have you ever written about how you start your campaigns? What do you expect your players to know about the setting, going in? And what does the first session look like?  

I am thinking in particular about the House of Worms, but also your campaigns in the Third Imperium. During character creation was there discussion about what they were going to pursue or did you provide a lot more direction at first? And given that the PCs were citizens of those empires, did you feed the players a lot of background knowledge during the initial sessions or have them do a little reading beforehand?

That's a very good question and one I can't recall specifically addressing in a previous post. The closest I've come to doing so, at least in recent years, was this post from earlier this year about my Barrett's Raiders Twilight: 2000 campaign. What I note in that post is that I generally have what's come to be known as "Session Zero," which is to say, an introductory session where the players and referee all get together and talk about the nature and scope of the campaign, the kinds of characters the players wish to create, etc. etc. 

There are lots of reasons why this is the case – perhaps fodder for another post – but my usual approach to starting a new campaign is fairly laissez-faire. I prefer to lay out a very broad concept for a campaign with a few ground rules and then let all the players go off and make their characters independently of one another. There might be some discussion between the players beforehand or between the players and myself, but not a lot. I'm a firm believer that the best campaigns are not planned but simply occur organically through the unexpected creativity of everyone involved.

To demonstrate a bit what I mean by this, allow me to use my ongoing House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign to illustrate my manner of starting a campaign. Initially, my only idea for the campaign, if you can call it that, was to run a Tékumel campaign. I'd previously refereed two campaigns in the setting, neither of which lasted more than a few months. I wanted to give it another go, this time in the hope that it might endure for at least a year or more. With very few exceptions, I always go into a new campaign in the hope of its being a long one. I'm not a fan of "mini-campaigns," let alone "one-shots," so, after a couple of failed attempts to create a stable Tékumel campaign, I wanted to give it another go.

Once I'd committed to a new Tékumel campaign (using EPT, because it's a fairly simple game and rather similar to Dungeons & Dragons, thereby eliminating one possible barrier to new players), I decided on two other details beforehand. The first was that the game would begin not in the city of Jakálla, as so many Tékumel games do, but in a different city. I chose Sokátis specifically because there wasn't a lot of information about it and because its location on the far eastern border of Tsolyánu made it a great "home base" for adventures outside the titular Empire of the Petal Throne. The second detail I decided was that all the characters would belong to the same clan in Sokátis, thus giving them a ready-made reason for why they all adventured together. This approach deviates from the "classical" one in which all new EPT characters are barbarians newly arrived in Tsolyánu looking to make a name for themselves and acquire imperial citizenship.

I then set about finding players through the late, lamented Google Plus. To my surprise, I found eight players interested in joining the campaign. I made it clear that the campaign was open to players of any level of familiarity with Tékumel. The result was a handful of complete neophytes, a couple of veterans, and the rest in between. I am well aware of Tékumel reputation – undeserved in my opinion – as an "impenetrable" setting. To dispel that notion, I assured neophytes that they'd need know nothing about the setting in advance; all they needed to know would be "taught" through play. 

That said, at the start, before characters were made, I explained to all the players the differences between the pantheons of Stability and Change and their places within Tsolyáni society. This was important, because the first question I put to the players was about the nature of the clan to which their characters would belong. Did they want to belong to a Stability-aligned clan, a Change-aligned clan, or an ecumenical one whose members worshiped a wider range of deities? I offered several examples of each clan, complete with their names and business. Eventually, the Change-aligned, Sárku-worshiping House of Worms clan was selected, which caused one of the players to drop out, as he couldn't countenance the idea of playing a character whose clan was devoted to Change god of death. (Another of the original eight players dropped out before we played due to scheduling conflicts.)

Having settled on the House of Worms clan, I then asked the players to create their own characters and to send them to me before the start of the first session a couple of weeks hence. If a player had any questions about the rules or the setting, I happily obliged them, but I did not direct their decisions nor did I encourage them to check with the other players. Instead, I asked them to make whatever character most appealed to them within the context of being a member of the House of Worms clan in the city of Sokátis. The results were an eclectic bunch but, over the years, they've managed to become an effective group, bound by both common ancestry and interests. 

I had absolutely no "grand plan" for the campaign whatsoever. I had elements of Tékumel that interested me, but I had learned long ago that the best campaigns were those whose development was shaped more by player interest than by that of the referee. Certainly, I dangled NPCs, locales, rumors, and mysteries in front of the characters in the hope that they might take them up and, in some cases, they did. In others, though, they went their own way and I contented myself with the fact that their strong drive to do this or that probably provided more sustainable forward momentum than anything I could impart. Still, I often held on to certain ideas and would repurpose or recontexualize them later so that I might get the chance to use things that interested me. After all, the referee is a player too and should get to a little bit of fun.

I kicked the campaign off with an open-ended mystery that gave the characters the opportunity to explore Sokátis, meet some significant NPCs, and learn a little more about Tsolyánu and the larger setting of Tékumel. I didn't specifically intend it to be didactic, since that's rarely fun, but I had hoped that, by showing the setting in action, the players would pick up on its details and come to understand them more. This worked beautifully, though it took time and patience, as most good things do. And the rest, as they say, is history. 

Please let me know in the comments if you'd like me to expand upon anything I've written here or if you'd like me to devote a similar post to one of my other campaigns to show you how I try to do things. I could probably do a more generic post in which I lay out broad principles for setting up a new campaign, but I think showing what I specifically did in the case of a single campaign might be more helpful, hence this post. 

My Traveller: 2300 (Part II)

The last Interstellar War between the Vilani Ziru Sirka and the Terran Confederation – dubbed by historians the Nth Interstellar War, because, after 200 years of sporadic, on-and-off hostilities, it was no longer clear when one war ended and another began – concluded in 2302, with a Terran victory. Though the Terrans never actually reached the Vilani capital of Vland, which was still several sectors away from the front lines, two centuries of defeats had finally toppled the already-tottering empire. Admiral Hiroshi Estigarribia, commander of the Terran forces, accepted the surrender of the Vilani ishimkarun ("shadow emperor"), thus beginning the occupation of the imperium. 

I had mistakenly assumed that this was the time period during which Traveller: 2300 would be set – the early years of the Terran occupation of the Vilani empire. In Traveller's future history, there's a 15-year period between the defeat of the Vilani and the establishment of a successor state, the Rule of Man (known to later history as the Second Imperium or "Ramshackle Empire"). During this time, more than 100,000 Terran naval officers were dispatched to worlds across Vilani space to take over the reins of government, to direct the local bureaucracies, and to maintain peace and order. In some cases, Terran ensigns were faced with governing entire worlds, while commanders of light cruisers were now administering entire subsectors. 

Terran forces were stretched seriously thin and faced with the nigh-impossible task of propping up what remained of the Vilani government, because, if it had fully collapsed and interstellar trade had ceased, billions across hundreds of worlds might have died. This is the scenario I imagined Traveller: 2300 was setting up as the backdrop for the game. I had visions in my head of player characters being assigned to a single world to govern it in the aftermath of the Vilani defeat, dealing with all that that entailed, including the culture shock of the ossified, stratified Vilani culture that had rigidly governed thousands of worlds for close to two millennia prior to this point. In short, it'd be an interstellar "domain game" in a situation reminiscent of Alexander's defeat of the Persian Empire in the 4th century BC.

But that's not all. In Traveller's history, the end of the Vilani empire precipitates changes in Terran society too. In 2317, the Terran Confederation announced plans to directly annex the entire imperium to itself, administering it and its resources as spoils of war. Doing so would have made many people on Terra very wealthy but at the cost of the Vilani people, whom the Terran Navy had spent more than a decade working with in order to stave off the worst. Many senior naval officers, including Admiral Estigarribia, were incensed by this and refused their orders. Indeed, Estigarribia and his allies launched a coup that overthrew the Confederation and installed him as "Protector of Terra and Regent of the Vilani Imperium." The Rule of Man was born.

What I was hoping was that Traveller: 2300 would have been a political game, in which the characters, whether or not they work with the Terran Navy, would have to navigate the shifting currents of the early Second Imperium, as its leaders struggled to maintain order, establish legitimacy, and manage the vast inheritance of a fallen interstellar hegemon. Such a setting would be rich with opportunities for intrigue, factional politics, and moral quandaries. Would the characters remain loyal to Estigarribia’s “emergency rule,” or seek to restore some semblance of the old Confederation? Would they champion native Vilani rights and customs or impose Terran reforms? What compromises would they make when ruling over entire worlds with little more than a couple of small starships and a handful of junior officers for support?

Imagine a campaign where the party’s ship is not just a vehicle for exploration or combat, but a traveling court or a flying colonial office. Each jump brings the characters to a different world, each with its own challenges: Vilani aristocrats playing at collaboration while secretly plotting revolt; ancient bureaucracies gumming up every effort at reform; smugglers, pirates, or rival Terran factions taking advantage of the power vacuum. Do the player characters use brute force to impose stability? Try to build consensus among local rulers? Or exploit the chaos for personal gain?

It’s the kind of campaign backdrop that combines space opera with elements of historical drama, diplomacy, and empire-building – think Birthright but in space. The chaos of the postwar period isn’t just background color – it’s the whole point. Players must grapple with what kind of future they want to build amid the ruins of the past. Of course, this is not the game that Traveller: 2300 is or was ever intended to be, but this is what I had hoped it would be and that I'd still like to run some day, because I think it's got a lot of potential.

Indeed, I almost ran a campaign along these lines maybe 15 or 20 years ago. The characters were all senior officers on the staff of an ambitious Terran admiral. As Hiroshi Estigarribia lay dying, he saw an opportunity to seize control, becoming his successor. Unfortunately, he is beaten to the punch by Estigarribia's chief of staff, who presents himself as Emperor Hiroshi II, establishing a new regime. The admiral, who is the characters' patron, now plots to find a way to achieve his original goal from behind the scenes, with the characters engaging in all sorts of political and military skullduggery. 

I never got very far into planning the campaign, in part because I soon realized that doing the concept justice would take a lot of work. I'd probably need some "domain" mechanics and larger scale starship combat rules, not to mention some system for handling influence and favors. I'd probably handwave a lot of that now, but, back then, before I'd fully immersed myself in old school play, that wasn't something I seriously considered. I also wasn't confident enough as a referee to pull it off. So, the idea still percolates in the back of my brain, waiting for an opportunity when I might make use of it.

Anyway, this is my vision for a "proper" Traveller: 2300. 

Symbol of the Rule of Man

My Traveller: 2300 (Part I)

In my discussions of GDW’s other science fiction roleplaying game, 2300AD, I’ve often mentioned that, when it was initially released under the title Traveller: 2300, I mistakenly believed the game to be a prequel to Traveller – a look into the prehistory of the Third Imperium setting. I assumed that the game presented events set in the year 2300 of Traveller’s own timeline, laying the groundwork for what would eventually become the interstellar empire familiar to long-time fans. I was wrong, of course. Traveller: 2300 was its own thing entirely, unconnected to the Traveller universe despite the branding.

That said, once I got past my initial confusion, I found Traveller: 2300 to be genuinely interesting in its own right. Over the years, I’ve had a great deal of fun playing it (and hope to do so again someday). Clearly, though, I wasn’t the only person to make this mistaken connection between the two games. That’s likely why GDW eventually changed the title to 2300AD, first truncating it simply to 2300 and then settling on the now-familiar title. As far as I can recall, only one or two products were ever released with the original Traveller: 2300 logo before the title change clarified matters.

I bring this up because, toward the end of last month, a reader left a comment on a post I’d written about Traveller: 2300, suggesting that I write a piece about what I’d do if I were to design a genuine Traveller prequel. As others were quick to point out, such a prequel already exists: Marc Miller’s Traveller, released in 1996 and now commonly referred to by fans as T4. This edition is set at the dawn of the Third Imperium – Year 0 – when Cleon Zhunastu, an industrialist turned statesman, oversees the transformation of the Sylean Federation into the Third Imperium, the third great human empire to dominate Charted Space.

The concept behind T4 is a strong one. The early days of the Third Imperium are fertile ground for adventure and intrigue. There’s plenty to do, as Cleon and his allies attempt to reestablish interstellar governance after nearly 1800 years of disunity and fragmentation following the Long Night. Unfortunately, the execution left much to be desired. T4 was plagued by a host of problems – poor editing, confusing mechanics, and books riddled with errata. Even many long-time Traveller enthusiasts found it frustrating and it never quite caught on. I was initially quite enthusiastic myself, but my excitement faded rapidly with the publication of the first few disorganized and unevenly written supplements.

Returning to my earlier confusion about Traveller: 2300, what I had expected – incorrectly – was a game set during the early centuries of Traveller’s own timeline, specifically after the invention of the jump drive by humans on Earth (later known as the Solomani) in the early 22nd century. According to the game’s canonical history, these early Terrans launched exploratory missions to nearby stars, only to discover that many had already been claimed by a powerful and ancient interstellar polity: the Ziru Sirka, or Grand Empire of Stars, ruled by the Vilani, humans of an entirely separate origin.

Inevitably, relations between the upstart Terran Confederation and the ossified Vilani empire soured, culminating in a series of protracted conflicts collectively known as the Interstellar Wars. Over the course of two centuries, the Terrans slowly but inexorably dismantled the Vilani imperium, a period detailed in GDW’s Imperium board wargame. This era of history is ripe with potential, filled with exploration, diplomacy, war, and cultural clashes – a veritable golden age for adventure.

If the name "Interstellar Wars" sounds familiar, that’s likely because Steve Jackson Games released a book by that title in 2006 as part of its GURPS Traveller line. GURPS Traveller: Interstellar Wars is a commendable book, well-researched and engaging in many respects. However, I’ve always felt it was held back somewhat by being tied to the GURPS system. While I have great respect for GURPS as a universal roleplaying system (and even contributed to several of its Traveller-related products), I don’t believe it’s a particularly natural fit for the kind of game Traveller is at heart. Regardless, Interstellar Wars focuses specifically on the period from 2113, when the first war between Terrans and Vilani began, to 2302, when the final conflict ended in the Vilani surrender. That puts only the very tail end of that timeline within the range I had mistakenly imagined Traveller: 2300 would cover. So, while GURPS Interstellar Wars is admirable in many respects, it doesn’t quite align with the vision I had in mind.

And what was that vision? What sort of Traveller prequel would I create if given the chance? That is the subject for Part II, which will appear tomorrow.

Retrospective: Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook

As a big fan of Twilight: 2000, one of the most intriguing aspects of its sequel game, 2300AD (né Traveller: 2300), was discovering what had become of Earth's many nations by the dawn of the 24th century. While the game's boxed sets and numerous supplements offered occasional hints, much remained unknown. GDW hadn't yet published a map of the world, leaving me to wonder not only how borders had shifted after the Twilight War but also which new nations had risen in its aftermath. In hindsight, this omission made a certain amount of sense: 2300AD focused primarily on Earth's interstellar colonies, relegating the homeworld to a supporting role. Still, I was eager to learn more, but it wasn't until the release of the Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook in 1989 that I finally got the map I’d long wanted, along with a wealth of additional detail about the planet.

By the time this supplement (penned by Lester Smith) appeared, science fiction and, by extension, science fiction gaming, was undergoing a thematic and aesthetic shift. The broad, idealistic strokes of earlier speculative futurism were giving way to bleaker visions of tomorrow, marked by corporate dystopias, body augmentation, and a cynical erosion of privacy and individuality. R. Talsorian’s Cyberpunk, released the year before, had embraced this new direction wholeheartedly, quickly establishing itself as the definitive expression of the genre within the hobby. In contrast, the Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook struck me as more ambivalent about the second part of its title. Its treatment of cybernetics felt less like a serious commitment to the cyberpunk mode and more like a cursory nod to a rising trend – an instance of bandwagon-jumping rather than wholehearted adoption.

I was much more interested in its depiction of 24th century Earth than in its presentation of cybertechnology anyway. I hoped that, by turning its attention away from the stars and toward the cradle of mankind, this supplement might help to expand the scope of the game and enrich the backdrop against which its action unfolded. In some respects, it’s reasonably successful. The book spends most of its 96 pages offering a portrait of the planet three hundred years after World War III, presenting a patchwork of familiar and unfamiliar nations and evolving political dynamics. Looking back on it now, what’s most notable about the Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook is how thoroughly it reflects the broader ambitions – and limitations – of 2300AD as a whole.

To explain what I mean, please allow me to briefly discuss 2300AD and its premise within the larger context of GDW’s roleplaying game lines in the late '80s. 2300AD was an attempt to create a hard science fiction RPG distinct from its more space opera-tinged predecessor, Traveller. The game imagined a world rebuilt from the ashes of the Twilight War under the leadership of the French Empire and its European allies, with interstellar colonization achieved through faster-than-light “stutterwarp” drives. The game’s tone was thus one of plausible extrapolation: technology had indeed advanced, but not in ways that made the world unrecognizable. It was a future you could almost believe in – grounded, methodical, and informed by history, geopolitics, and military realism.

The Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook tries to remain true to that tone, but it haphazardly incorporates the trappings of cyberpunk in a way that, unfortunately, undermines the attempt. Cybernetic implants, shadowy megacorporations, and “deck jockeys” are all present, but they’re awkwardly grafted onto a setting that was never designed to accommodate them. Rather than enriching the game’s vision of the future, these elements often feel like genre paint hastily slathered over a very different kind of foundation. The result is a setting that feels inconsistent, even incoherent at times, a supplement trying to gesture toward contemporary trends in science fiction without fully integrating them into 2300AD’s established ethos.

This tension between competing visions of the future is, I think, emblematic of the struggles GDW often faced when expanding its game lines. The company’s writers were admirably ambitious and often ahead of the curve in terms of scope and complexity, but they sometimes failed to reconcile newer creative impulses with the foundations they had already laid. We see this in the tonal shifts and mechanical overhauls of MegaTraveller and especially in the jarring transition to Traveller: The New Era. However, it occurred even earlier in the Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook. Here, though, the misstep feels especially unfortunate, because the supplement had the potential to deepen and expand the game’s portrayal of Earth and bring a neglected part of its setting into sharper focus. Instead, it mostly muddies the waters by attempting to be something 2300AD was never intended to be.

That’s not to say the supplement is without value. For those interested in 2300AD’s geopolitical vision, it remains a useful (if flawed) resource. The world map, national summaries, and discussions of post-Twilight War culture and politics help fill in gaps left by the core game and earlier publications. There are even moments of genuine insight and creativity, especially when the book focuses on the quieter, more grounded elements of life on Earth. But these moments are often overshadowed by the half-hearted dive into cyberpunk tropes, which feel tacked on rather than organically developed.

In the end, the Earth/Cybertech Sourcebook tries to have its cake and eat it too, marrying GDW’s traditionally serious approach to history, politics, and military matters to the more outlandish claims of the then-nascent cyberpunk genre. The final result is neither fish nor fowl. It gestures toward the grit and style of Cyberpunk without committing to its worldview, while simultaneously diluting the strengths of 2300AD’s grounded speculative realism. It is, I think, a rare and notable misstep in a game line that is otherwise quite measured and “realistic.” Even today, I remain disappointed by the book, not because it lacked potential, but because it failed to realize the one thing it could have done best: shine a clear and coherent light on Earth’s future without losing sight of what made 2300AD compelling in the first place.

The Articles of Dragon: "Taking the Sting Out of Poison"

One of the characteristics of the Silver Age of Dungeons & Dragons (1983–1989) is its concern with "realism," both in its worldbuilding and in the game rules intended to facilitate them. You can clearly see this in the kinds of articles Dragon magazine published during the mid to late 1980s, a great many of which I still remember to this day. "Living in a Material World," about which I posted last week, is a good example of what I'm talking about, but it's far from the only one.

Another excellent example is Chris Landsea's "Taking the Sting Out of Poison," which appeared in issue #81 (January 1984). At the start of his article, Landsea notes that his piece is, after a fashion, a response to two previous articles on poison that appeared in earlier issues of Dragon. The first is Charles Sagui's "Poison: From AA to XX" from issue #32 (December 1979) and the second is Larry DiTillio's "Poison: The Toxins of Cerilon" from issue #50 (March 1982). Landsea praises both articles for certain aspects of their treatment of poisons but he also has criticisms that he hopes to address in his own discussion of the topic.

The article is a long one – about ten pages, though not all the pages are full ones. Even so, it's an extensive examination of many aspects of poisons and poison use in AD&D, intended to be the definitive guide. In that respect, there's little question that the article does its job, albeit with a great deal more detail than I would care about today. There's nevertheless something strangely admirable about Landsea's thoroughness. He covers all the bases, from the different types of poisons (ingestive, insinuative, contact, poison gas, monster venom) to their relative strengths, how easy they are to detect, how long before they take effect, not to mention much more obvious matters like damage dealt on a successful or failed save. Landsea has probably thought more about poisons in AD&D than anyone else ever has and it shows.

Whether this is good or bad is, of course, a matter of personal preference. At the time "Taking the Sting Out of Poison" was released in early 1984, I was keen on it, if not necessarily enthusiastic. Like a lot of things, such as material components, I was very much in favor of these kinds of hyper-specific, hype-detailed rules additions – in principle. They appealed to my youthful sense of order and the desire to have an answer to any rules question that might come up in play. But did I ever use them in play? I don't think so. If I did, I can't recall it, which tells you everything you need to know about the utility of this kind of article.

Now, it's quite possible that I'm the odd one out here and that thousands of AD&D players were clamoring for an article like this in order to improve their adventures and campaigns. If so, I suspect they would be very happy with "Taking the Sting Out of Poison." It's an exhaustive and very well done examination of its chosen topic. I mean that without a hint of sarcasm. It's really good and, as I said, my youthful self respected all the hard work Chris Landsea clearly had done in writing it, even as I never made use of it. There's a whole genre of Dragon articles like this, consisting of well-written and researched treatments of narrow topics that probably never saw much use at anyone's table, but, to quote Grandpa Simpson, it was the style at the time.

Speaking of the style of the time, another thing the article does is mention again and again AD&D's official stance on the use of poison by player characters who are not members of the assassin class. Even though Dragon depended on a huge number of rules variants for its monthly content, the editorial policy at the time was to remind readers that nothing within its pages was official unless it came from the pen of Gary Gygax or someone to whom he had given his imprimatur. Landsea clearly knew this, which might explain why he seems at pains to emphasize his fidelity to AD&D whenever possible. This has no impact on the quality of the article itself; it's simply a peculiar artifact from another era.

Reading Material

One of the many joys of this hobby is the sheer volume of imaginative material it has generated over the last five decades. Even now, I can happily spend an afternoon thumbing through a well-worn module or sourcebook and suddenly find I've lost an hour or more in its descriptions, maps, and background information. Roleplaying games, at their best, can stimulate the imagination in ways few other media can. They seem designed to invite speculation, which makes them a pleasure simply to read.

But they’re also games.

This shouldn't be a controversial statement, but sometimes I wonder. RPGs are designed to be played, yet so much of the hobby nowadays seems oriented around simply reading them instead. You can see this in how games are written, how they're marketed, and how they're consumed. I know more than a few gamers with dozens – sometimes hundreds – of books on their shelves, the majority of which have never seen use in any fashion, except as reading material. I know this because I myself am too often guilty of the same.

Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with reading RPGs for enjoyment. I do it all the time and some games practically demand it. However, I do worry about the habits this encourages. For many gamers, especially since the appearance of PDFs and other digital media, the hobby can become more about collecting and commenting than it is about playing. “Backlog” becomes a point of pride. The latest boxed set or 300-page full-color hardback might get read, maybe even admired, but rarely, if ever, brought to the table.

There is, increasingly, a bifurcation in the hobby between those who play RPGs and those who consume them, often as passive entertainment. It’s now quite common to encounter people who own dozens of games they’ve never refereed or played, who follow RPGs the way one might follow a television show or a comic book line. They discuss scenarios, debate rules, rank publishers, and chase new releases, not unlike fans of any other media franchise. As I said, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that either, but I question whether that mode of engagement still resembles gaming in any meaningful sense.

To be fair, the sheer volume of RPG material produced each year probably makes it impossible for even a fraction of it to be meaningfully used. Nevertheless, I think this overproduction has consequences. Most importantly, I worry that it's fostering a passive approach to gaming, one where we're more accustomed to absorbing information than in making decisions, more practiced in critique than in improvisation. Worse, it creates an expectation that play requires exhaustive preparation and a towering stack of sourcebooks before anyone dares to roll dice. The result is paralysis: we read, we plan, we dream, but we don’t actually play.

The modern glut of RPG material encourages a passive engagement with the hobby, one where reading supplants playing. It fosters the illusion that the essence of the game lies within the glossy pages of a new release rather than in the messy, unpredictable energy of the table itself. Increasingly, we see products crafted less as tools for play and more as artifacts for consumption – lavishly produced, densely written, and satisfying to browse but difficult to use in actual sessions. These works often prioritize information over usability and polish over spontaneity. In doing so, they quietly undermine the fast-and-loose, make-it-up-as-you-go spirit that once defined roleplaying.

It wasn’t always like this. The earliest RPG books were lean, sometimes opaque, and unapologetically practical. They assumed the reader was already gathering friends and dice, ready to dive in. These texts weren’t written to be admired; they were written to be used, bent, scribbled in, and carried to game night. If you weren’t playing, they didn’t offer much. They threw you straight into the action with minimal handholding, trusting that you’d figure it out (or make it up) as you went. That trust in the referee’s imagination and willingness to improvise was not a flaw but a feature, a recognition that the real magic happened not on the page, but in the shared chaos of play.

There’s a lesson in that, I think. Games need to be played to come alive. The rules, the settings, the monsters, the magic, all of it is inert until you put it into action. Reading an RPG can be a fine experience, but it’s not the same as the laughter, confusion, and surprise of a good session. The books may be the door, but the game – the actual game – is what lies beyond it.

So, by all means, read. Marvel at the creativity our hobby continues to produce. Just don’t forget to play. Otherwise, all we’re doing is collecting books and calling it participation.