Initiation

Over the past few months, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own introduction to the hobby in late 1979. My experiences weren’t unique, but they were mine and it’s important not to treat them as universal. Even among those who started around the same time, no two stories are exactly alike. The same goes for anyone who might read what follows and think, “That’s not how I remember it.” Your memories are no less real, but neither are they more representative than my own. There’s no single, definitive way to have entered the hobby and we’d all do well to remember that. I raise this point only to make clear that what follows comes from my own recollections of being ten years old, discovering Dungeons & Dragons, and, through it, the larger world of nerd-dom.

Like a lot of the kids I grew up with, my first awareness of D&D didn’t come from spotting a box on a toy store shelf or from advertising. It came as a result of the media hoopla surrounding the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert in August 1979. I've talked about this many times before, so I won't waste too much time with it here. What's important to bear in mind is that this event and the sensationalist news coverage that it elicited it played a key role in my earliest sense of what the hobby was like. Even though I never saw anything "dangerous" about D&D or roleplaying games, many people seemingly did and that knowledge colored my early experiences. 

Once I had a copy of D&D to examine, I couldn't make heads or tails of the rules. Even though my copy was supposedly a "basic set," I found the rulebook nearly impossible to understand. I might as well have been written in Latin or Greek, because at least then I could explain why I had such difficulty making sense of it. When I sometimes compare opening that rulebook to peering into a grimoire, this is what I mean. The knowledge was there, but it was opaque and intimidating. Consequently, my real education came not from the printed word but from my elders in the hobby, older kids who had already passed through the veil and were willing to usher me along, like my friend's older brother.

What's interesting from the vantage point of the present is that he didn't sit us down and explain rules systematically. Instead, he showed us how to roll up characters, how to read the dice, and so forth. In a number of cases, what he told wasn't something I could find anywhere in the rulebook, but none of us minded, because we had faith that what he was teaching us was correct, even though, as we later learned, that much of it wasn't. In any case, this is vital to understanding how I came into the hobby. My friends and I were taken under the wing of someone we perceived to be already knowledgeable about D&D, who showed us the ropes, even if he did so imperfectly. 

It's equally important to understand that, despite the media coverage, roleplaying was still very much a fringe activity in my earliest days. The first truly "mainstream" edition of Dungeons & Dragons – the Moldvay and Cook/Marsh boxed sets – weren't released until 1981, more than a year after I started playing, so you had to venture into some pretty peculiar places to find RPGs (though, to be fair, my Holmes set was ordered through a Sears Catalog). The hobby shops of my youth were nothing like the bright, well-stocked game cafes of today. They were dim, cluttered, often a little musty. Aisles were packed with model kits, miniatures, and stacks of books. The proprietors were frequently brusque, eccentric men who seemed to size you up as you walked in, as though to determine whether you were really there for the games or had simply wandered in by mistake. To buy your first set of dice or a module was to pass through a kind of test and, if you succeeded, you carried your treasure out like a relic looted from the catacombs.

From the outside, of course, it all looked baffling. I don't think my parents ever really understood what roleplaying games were, for example, and their confusion was not unusual. Outside my circle of friends and the other players I'd meet in various locales, it was very uncommon to encounter anyone who knew what we were playing – which is perfectly understandable, given how hard even we found it to learn to play. Inside our circle, though, the hobby felt like we had been given access to something powerful and hidden. Once we'd been shown how to play, once we'd rolled those dice, and said what our characters wanted to do next, we belonged. We were now part of a fellowship that outsiders could not easily understand and that was part of the fun.

No one ever handed me a torch or a robe. There was no altar, no oaths sworn in secret chambers. Even so, I can't help but think of my introduction into the hobby as an initiation. That introduction was not at all straightforward. It wasn't simply a matter of “learning a new game” that it might have seemed to outsiders. Instead, it was baffling and mysterious and thrilling, not to mention occasionally off-putting. It felt like a rite of passage for me as a kid on the verge of his teen years. Decades later, I remain grateful for it all. It was a terrific way to enter this hobby.