Toward Lighter Dreams

As I alluded to in today's earlier post, I recently discovered a surprising connection to the stories of H.P. Lovecraft's so-called "Dream Cycle." I say "so-called," because exactly which stories are to be included in this grouping is a matter of some debate, though certain tales, like "The Doom That Came to Sarnath" and The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath are pretty much universally accepted as being among them, while the inclusion of others, such as "The Dreams in the Witch House," for example, are more contentious. Such considerations are interesting and probably worthy of further discussion, but that's not what concerns me in this post. Instead, I want to talk a little more about just why I think I've returned to the stories of the Dreamlands with new eyes.

H.P. Lovecraft has long been one of my favorite authors and his stories have exercised a remarkable influence over my imagination. Until recently, though, it was his tales of cosmic horror that commanded most of my attention as, I suspect, they have for most fans of his work over the decades. Cosmic horror is a literary mode that emphasizes human insignificance and powerlessness, often culminating in despair, if not outright madness. I first encountered it at just the right time – the dawn of my teenage years – so it stuck with me almost as a default lens for thinking about not only horror in general but Lovecraft in particular.

However, as I suggested last month, Lovecraft’s work was not monolithic and neither is my interest in his writings. When I re-read his tales with fresh eyes, I found myself drawn less to his works of cosmic dread and more to those set in the Dreamlands. These stories, however one defines the cycle, strike very different notes than, say, “The Call of Cthulhu” or “The Dunwich Horror.” They are suffused with longing and melancholy, yes, but also with a deep sense of wonder. They are stories in which the imagination does not lead inevitably to terror but instead creates places worth visiting, people worth meeting, and experiences worth treasuring.

I didn’t expect Lovecraft’s Dreamlands stories to awaken such feelings in me, but they did. I still value the bleak and the horrifying, of course, but I’ve come to realize that, with the realm of roleplaying games, I also crave experiences that leave space for something lighter, something more hopeful. By “hopeful,” I don’t mean saccharine or consequence-free. The Dreamlands are no less perilous than the Waking World and many who travel there come to sad ends. Yet, they also offer fellowship, beauty, and the possibility of triumph. Further, they have provided me with a vision of a roleplaying game in which imagination is not merely a weapon turned against us, but a lamp to guide us through the darkness.

These are the qualities that inspired me to begin work on Dream-Quest. My intention with this particular project is not another generic fantasy roleplaying game, but one where exploration, discovery, and wonder take center stage. I want a game where danger is real, but so too is the joy of a shared meal, the peace of a moonlit harbor, and the beauty of a long-lost temple rediscovered beneath the stars. Dream-Quest is meant to capture the balance between peril and possibility, melancholy and hope, that I find so compelling in Lovecraft’s Dreamlands yarns.

Perhaps this reflects where I now find myself, both as a gamer and as a person. The older I get, the more I value moments of rest, fellowship, and joy, even in the midst of turmoil and struggle. That, I think, is what Randolph Carter sought in his wanderings across the Dreamlands: a reminder that, however fleeting, there are still places of wonder to be found. If Dream-Quest can capture even a fraction of that feeling, then the effort will have been worthwhile.