I'd hoped to have something Halloween-y to post, but the only scare you get today is my face, when Marc Miller, creator of Traveller, kindly consented to having his photo take with me at Gamehole Con earlier this month.
I give Dragonlance a lot of grief – deservedly so, I think – for the role it played in forever changing both Dungeons & Dragons and the way it's been sold, but Dragonlance was merely expanding on ideas first put forward in earlier modules penned by Tracy Hickman, particularly 1983's Ravenloft. Unlike the Dragonlance modules, which, even at the time, I liked more in theory than in practice, I used to love Ravenloft. It's easy to understand why. Module I6 is a very "moody" piece of work, unlike most previous AD&D modules, which achieved their moods much more haphazardly or at least less self-consciously. Ravenloft's evocation of Gothic horror was also unlike most other modules at the time and, given my relative unfamiliarity with that genre of fiction – I'd not yet read Dracula in 1983 – I found it all very compelling.Once again, I'm sharing a public post from my Patreon about the development of Dream-Quest, for the benefit of those who are interested in this ongoing project.
Over the years I've written this blog, I don't think I've devoted much space to the adventures that have appeared in the pages of Dragon. I'm not quite sure why that is. In retrospect, it seems to me that this would be an obvious source of commentary, particularly as I often made use of these scenarios in whole or in part. Perhaps one day I'll go back and correct this omission in a more systematic way. Today, though, I want to focus on a single specific Dragon magazine adventure that I think is genuinely worthy of attention – for a couple of reasons.
Roger E. Moore's "Aesirhamar" appeared in issue #90 (October 1984) and is a companion piece to "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" from the same issue. I'd actually go farther and say that "Aesirhamar" is just as important as the article it accompanies, because it shows how the information in the article is supposed to be used in play. I think that's important in this case. As I stated in my earlier post, "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" is rather dull, focusing primarily on the way that the normal rules of AD&D must be modified to account for the home of the Norse gods. The result is, in my opinion, quite tedious rather than exciting, which is why I never regarded "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" as highly as I did Moore's "The Astral Plane."
With the addition of "Aesirhamar," though, Moore's approach in the accompanying article makes more sense. Now that the Dungeon Master has a scenario set on Gladsheim, he has the opportunity to make use of all those rules changes and exceptions that Moore has laid out. Rather than being abstract ideas, they're very important, tied to an adventure in which high-level characters journey to Jotunheim and must contend not only with its hostile inhabitants but also with the way magic and other abilities are warped by the very nature of this Outer Plane.
Like a lot of older AD&D adventures, "Aesirhamar" doesn't really have a plot. Instead, it presents a situation and several locales connected to that situation through which the characters journey. In brief, the characters are summoned by some of the Aesir of the Norse pantheon to locate and stop an evil dwarf who is in league with the giant Hargnar Left-Hand. The dwarf is in possession of a mighty magical weapon, the titular Aesirhamar, which was forged in order to kill the gods in revenge of Thor's killing of Hargnar's brothers. It's a pretty straightforward situation, one that's easy to understand and appropriately Norse in its focus.
For the morning session, I ran a Dolmenwood adventure, The Ruined Abbey of St Clewyd, for four players. From what I can tell, everyone had a good time. My only real regret is that the scenario, while excellent, is probably a little too involved to be completed in a typical convention time slot. I should have prepared a shorter scenario and will remember that for the future. Still, the session was fun and the players really got into their characters. I was especially impressed by the player of Brother Aubrey, a friar, who was responsible for some of the most memorable moments in the session.
In the afternoon, I played Forbidden Psalm, a skirmish-level miniatures game based on Mörk Borg. As I've written here on numerous occasions, I've never been much of a miniatures player, though not for lack of interest. Mostly, my lack of skill in painting has kept me from looking too deeply into this part of the hobby. Regardless, I really I enjoyed playing this game, once I got the hang of its rules, which were simple and straightforward – just the way I like them. Though my faction, The Horrific Morbidities, did not emerge victorious, I have no regrets. The referee and the other players were great and I will happily play this again in the future.
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| Blurry Photographic Proof of My Playing Forbidden Psalm |
Though Weird Tales was without question the premier magazine of the pulp era, it was hardly alone in exploring the strange and macabre. Among its would-be rivals was Strange Tales of Mystery and Terror, edited by Harry Bates, a capable writer himself, best remembered for his 1940 story “Farewell to the Master,” which later inspired the classic film The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951). Strange Tales set out to challenge Weird Tales directly and earned a solid reputation for the high quality of its fiction and the caliber of its contributors, including such luminaries as Clark Ashton Smith and Robert E. Howard. Sadly, the magazine’s ambitions outpaced its fortunes. Its publisher went bankrupt after only seven issues, released between 1931 and 1933.
One of the most intriguing stories to appear in Strange Tales was Robert E. Howard’s “The Cairn on the Headland,” published in the magazine’s final issue in January 1933. The tale stands out not only for its content, which is an imaginative fusion of Norse mythology and Christian legend, but also for what it reveals about Howard’s own enduring fascination with that theme. As he often did, Howard wrote and rewrote versions of this story in his search for a suitable market. Unlike his friend H.P. Lovecraft, who generally shelved a piece once Weird Tales editor Farnsworth Wright rejected it, Howard was relentless in finding new outlets for his fiction. Yet the persistence with which he revisited this particular idea suggests he found something deeply compelling within it and I’m inclined to agree.The story begin as “Spears of Clontarf,” a historical adventure centered on the Battle of Clontarf (1014 AD) and featuring Turlogh Dubh O’Brien, one of Howard’s recurring Irish heroes. When he failed to sell it, REH recast the material as “The Grey God Passes,” introducing more overt fantasy and mythic elements to the same historical events. This, too, went unpublished in his lifetime. Finally, Howard returned once more to the subject, transforming it into a modern story of supernatural horror. In this final version of the idea, the Battle of Clontarf becomes a haunting memory intruding into the present, and Howard at last succeeded in finding a publisher. It's this version of the story I want to discuss today, as the final entry in this month's horror-themed Pulp Fantasy Library posts.
The protagonist of "The Cairn on the Headland" is James O’Brien, an Irish-American scholar devoted to medieval Irish history. Fluent in Gaelic and steeped in the great chronicles of his ancestral homeland, O’Brien embodies Howard’s ideal of the learned yet passionate antiquarian. His career, however, is blighted by Ortali, a strange blackmailer who holds false evidence linking O’Brien to a murder. Ortali believes O'Brien will one day unearth some great treasure through his researches and hopes to benefit from them, hence his extortion. Trapped, O'Brien has little choice but to work side by side with Ortali, even as his hatred for him grows.
During a visit to Dublin, the two men explore the titular cairn on a headland overlooking the city. The locals shun it, believing it cursed since the time of Clontarf, when the Irish under King Brian Boru threw off centuries of Viking domination. O’Brien is uncertain whether the cairn commemorates the victors or their foes, but he is certain it should not be disturbed. Ortali scoffs at his superstition, vowing to return at midnight and dig beneath the stones for treasure, mockingly wearing a sprig of holly, which the villagers say must never come near the place.
Later, O’Brien encounters a mysterious woman dressed in archaic clothing who introduces herself as Meve MacDonnal. She gives him the lost Cross of Saint Brandon [sic], insisting he will soon need it. Only later does O’Brien realize that Meve MacDonnal has been dead for centuries, her grave not far away. That night, in troubled sleep, he dreams – or is it remembers? – his former life as Red Cumal, an Irish warrior who fought at Clontarf. In this vision, Cumal helps defeat a one-eyed Viking chieftain who reveals himself as Odin in human form. Wounded by a spear marked with a cross, the god lies helpless, trapped in mortality. Cumal knows that holly must never touch Odin’s body and he and his comrades seal him beneath a cairn.
O’Brien awakens from his dream to find Ortali gone. He rushes to the headland and arrives just as the blackmailer uncovers the body buried within, unchanged after a thousand years. A sprig of holly falls from Ortali’s lapel and the corpse stirs. Odin reawakens, shedding human guise to become a towering, demonic spirit wreathed in auroral light. His first act is to destroy Ortali with a blast of lightning. O’Brien, remembering the cross he'd been given, raises it high. The relic shines with unearthly brilliance, banishing the pagan god in an act resembling an exorcism. At dawn, O’Brien stands alone among the shattered stones, free of both Ortali and Odin.
The story's fusion of Norse myth and Christian legend is unusual, though not entirely without precedent in Howard's writing, especially when one considers his many Solomon Kane yarns. The Battle of Clontarf becomes not just a struggle for Ireland’s freedom but also a cosmic contest between Light and Darkness, Christ and Odin. Howard’s Odin is no noble All-Father but instead a demon, an ancient power of frost and cruelty whose defeat marks the turning of an age.
Such stark moral contrasts are typical of Howard, but in “The Cairn on the Headland,” they take on an unmistakably theological tone. The story reflects the medieval Christian reinterpretation of pagan gods as fallen angels. Howard’s Odin undergoes precisely this transformation, stripped of his majesty and recast as a malevolent spirit lingering on the edges of history. Yet, for all its moral gravity, the tale remains quintessentially Howardian. O’Brien, though a scholar by nature, is no passive intellectual. Confronted with a supernatural threat, he meets it head-on, triumphing not only over Odin himself but also over the lingering shadow of his own moral weakness and subjugation to Ortali’s blackmail.
As an avowed enjoyer of the face of the Great Green Devil, I had to pick up this magnet a vendor was offering for sale at Gamehole Con. It now graces my refrigerator, alongside a couple of other RPG-related magnets. I wish I could recall the name of the vendor, because he was selling a lot of really great little souvenirs and tchotchkes like this one.
In any case, I'm still playing catch-up after my travels and, since I'm heading off to CleriCon this weekend – yes, another convention, but a local one this time – I've still got a lot of non-bloggy work on my plate. With luck, regular service will resume next week. Thanks for your patience.
Firstly, I should reiterate that Fading Suns was suggested by my players, not myself. I actually put forward Secrets of sha-Arthan, which I first started working on four years ago and whose recent development I've been chronicling each Friday at Grognardia Games Direct. I thought starting up a SosA campaign would be a great way to put its rules through their paces and expand on its evolving setting. However, several of the players rightly pointed out that Secrets of sha-Arthan is, by my own admission, a riff on many aspects of Tékumel. Since we'd already spent more than a decade in that kind of setting, there's a danger that we'd just be doing more of the same.
I couldn't disagree with that logic, which is why I also offered to run Dream-Quest, the Lovecraftian fantasy game I'm creating. Like Secrets of sha-Arthan, it really needs to be playtested and an ongoing campaign would be a great way to do that. This, too, was rejected on the grounds that my players didn't want to do another fantasy game, preferring instead something science fictional – or at least adjacent to that genre. You might wonder why we didn't opt for my own Thousand Suns, which I'd have gladly refereed, but the simple truth is that, by the time the conversation turned to SF, a couple of the players independently indicated that they'd always wanted to try Fading Suns, a suggestion that was soon embraced by everyone else (except one player, who decided to take the opportunity to bow out).
I had no problems with this. Fading Suns is a game for which I have a lot of affection. In the early 2000s, during the heaviest period of my freelance writing days, I contributed to three different supplements for the game, so I'm quite familiar with its setting. I also worked on the current edition of the game, writing the parts of the initial releases pertaining to the Universal Church of the Celestial Sun, along with the supplement devoted specifically to the Urth Orthodox sect. Since I haven't actually played the game since the late '90s/early 2000s, I had no problem returning to it for our new campaign. In fact, I was pleased the players were interested in it.
The campaign frame is that one of the characters is a young nobleman of House Li Halan who's something of an embarrassment to his family. Inexperienced and more than a little disrespectful of the traditions of his exalted lineage, he's been politely exiled under the guise of being sent on a Grand Tour of the Empire to "gain some seasoning" when, in reality, it's to ensure he's someone else's problem. Of course, even as troublesome as he is, the Li Halan don't want to see one of their own come to a bad end, which is why he's been sent out on his Grand Tour with a small entourage – the other player characters – including an Urth Orthodox priest-confessor who is genuinely concerned for the nobleman's soul.
I was very blessed to have shared a hotel room with one of the players of my Barrett's Raiders campaign. Though we’ve known each other for years, our friendship had only existed in the digital realm until last year’s Gamehole Con, when we finally met in person. Even after all these years of online gaming, there’s something quietly profound about that first handshake and the realization that someone you’ve shared countless imaginary worlds with actually exists in the same one as you. Perhaps it’s my age showing, but I still place great value on the tangible and largely unmediated experiences.
Online friendships are real. I have many that I treasure deeply, but there’s a particular joy in crossing that invisible line between the virtual and the physical. Sharing a meal, talking late into the night, comparing notes on games and life are all things that remind me why conventions like Gamehole Con matter. They’re not just about dice and character sheets; they’re about connection, which grounds this strange hobby of ours in real human company.
What makes this even more remarkable is that so many of the hobby’s “celebrities” (for lack of a better word) are, themselves, fans. I can’t tell you how many times, while sitting down to talk with someone well-known in the hobby, he told me how much he enjoyed Grognardia and how glad he was that I’d returned to blogging. A few times, I was even introduced to others as “the guy who writes Grognardia” and the look of recognition that followed was both humbling and gratifying. I was particularly tickled to discover that Ed Greenwood had bought all thirteen issues of my Tékumel ’zine, The Excellent Travelling Volume, because he’s a fan of the setting. I’ve met Ed several times before, but even so, that revelation surprised me.
My point here isn’t to brag (much) but to emphasize something I think is special about our hobby. There’s no vast gulf separating creators from players. In most cases, they’re the same people, sitting across the same tables, rolling the same dice, and dreaming the same dreams. That shared enthusiasm, that sense that we’re all participants in something communal and ongoing, is what gives tabletop gaming its continued vitality, even after half a century.
I am now safely back in my northern lair after spending the last five days at Gamehole Con in lovely Madison, Wisconsin. I have a lot to say about it and other topics, but that will have to wait until after I have dug myself out from under all the emails, comments, and other correspondence that has piled up in my absence. In the meantime, enjoy another amusing Tolkien-related comic:
While I still remain an avowed Luddite, I will be bringing a camera with me this year, so I hope to have more photos to share of the con than I did last year. I will still be largely out of contact while I'm in Madison, so there will be no significant posts from me here or on my Patreon or Substack until after I return. Likewise, comment approval will be suspended. With luck, I'll avoid coming down with the dreaded Con Crud as a result of my travels, but I wasn't so lucky last year.
Here's another public post from my Patreon about the development of Dream-Quest. As always, I invite comments on the post, since I'm still turning over ideas in my head and appreciate other perspectives. In this particular case, I'm pondering a fairly big change to the mechanics and presentation of the game as I've imagined it so far, which is why feedback is important.
In the case of the other two articles from this issue I've already discussed, that makes some sense. However, in the case of Roger E. Moore's "Plane Facts on Gladsheim," I'm a bit surprised. I was always a huge fan of Moore's articles, many of which are among the best ever to appear in the pages of Dragon. Likewise, I was fascinated by AD&D's planar cosmology from the moment I first saw it in Appendix IV of the Players Handbook. I wanted to know more about all these strange otherworlds that Gary Gygax mentioned there. Consequently, Moore's article on the Astral Plane was like catnip to me. Even now, I'd easily list it as one of my Top 10 Favorite Articles – probably even Top 5.
That's why I'm surprised I didn't remember that issue #90 included Moore's attempt to do for Gladsheim what he had done earlier for the Astral Plane. Rereading it, though, I begin to remember why. But before I get to that, I'd like to talk briefly about the article itself. At over a dozen pages in length, there can be no question that Moore has been thorough in describing the realm of the Norse gods and other "chaotic good neutrals," to use Gygax's gloriously baroque terminology. He presents the overall "geography" of the plane, with its various realms associated with gods, giants, and other beings, as well as how they relate to one another. It's useful stuff but, if you're already well versed in Norse mythology, none of it is new information.
What is new are his notes on how various AD&D spells and magic items operate on Gladsheim. Indeed, the bulk of the article is taken up by these notes, as Moore describes a wide range of changes, tweaks, and restrictions in how these things work here. On the one hand, this is very much to be expected. Starting with Queen of the Demonweb Pits, AD&D largely took a game mechanical approach to describing the planes. The planes were places where the rules of the game worked differently than they did on the Prime Material Plane of your home campaign setting. That is what set them apart (along with some new random encounter charts). Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with that approach and I think, in the case of both Lolth's layer of the Abyss and the Astral Plane, it works reasonably well. In the case of Gladsheim, though, I don't think it does – or at least, it's not enough to do so.
The story’s plot is simple but clever. Set in contemporary Chicago, it follows Sir Guy Hollis, a visiting Englishman who approaches a skeptical American psychiatrist, John Carmody, with the extraordinary claim that Jack the Ripper still lives. Hollis explains that the Ripper was no mere man but an occultist who discovered a means of prolonging his life through ritual murder. The killings, he insists, have continued for decades, always masked by local crimes. Carmody humors Hollis, until a twist ending reveals the truth in classic pulp fashion, namely, that the Ripper is indeed alive and much closer than anyone suspected.
Despite its shock ending, Bloch’s tale is more than a clever “gotcha” story. It’s a condensation of the author’s lifelong preoccupations with the psychology of evil and the thin membrane separating reason from madness. Bloch's Ripper is not a shadowy figure from the past but a symbol of the persistence of violence and the darkness within modernity itself. The idea of evil as immortal, adaptable, and perversely rational is one Bloch would return to repeatedly, most famously in his novel Psycho, adapted into the even more famous Alfred Hitchcock film of the same name. Bloch's fascination with hidden monstrosity under a civilized veneer runs through “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” which expertly combines the analytic tone of mid-century crime fiction with the lurid, occult sensibility of Weird Tales.
The story also marks a bridge between two eras of pulp horror. Bloch’s early mentor, H. P. Lovecraft, had encouraged him to look beyond imitation and find his own unique take on horror. “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” shows that lesson fully absorbed. While Lovecraft looked outward to cosmic terrors, Bloch looked inward to psychological ones. His Ripper is a mortal man sustained by unholy ritual rather than an inhuman being, yet he represents a similar idea – that horror is not confined to a time or a place but an enduring truth about existence.
Other pulp writers of the same era, such as Seabury Quinn and August Derleth, had already blended supernatural elements with the detective story, but Bloch’s version somehow feels more modern than their efforts. Its clipped dialogue, urban setting, and psychiatric framing anticipate the tone of postwar noir as much as the supernatural mystery. The story’s success, both in Weird Tales and in the numerous anthologies that reprinted it, helped establish Bloch as a master of the short form and demonstrated that pulp horror could engage with contemporary anxieties rather than remain trapped in the past.
Bloch himself would later revisit the central idea of this story in a different medium. For the television series, Star Trek, he wrote the 1967 episode “Wolf in the Fold,” which imagines Jack the Ripper as an incorporeal entity feeding on fear across time and space. The science-fictional reframing underscores how adaptable the premise is and how central it was to Bloch’s conception of evil as rational and enduring. That Star Trek episode, like the 1943 story, reflects his belief that horror is never merely historical. Instead, it’s part of Man, wherever and whenever he lives.
Late last year, when I thought my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign was only a few weeks from ending — shows what I know! — I mentioned that I planned to let the players ask me questions about the campaign, particularly about what things looked like “on the other side of the screen,” so to speak. I’ve always believed in a certain degree of transparency when it comes to what I do as referee. None of it is “secret knowledge,” so long as revealing it doesn’t spoil or diminish the experience of play.
Now that House of Worms has finally come to an end, I’m happy to answer any questions the players might have.
For a long time, my Retrospective posts have focused on games and products from the so-called Golden and Silver Ages of Dungeons & Dragons, which is to say, the first fifteen or so years of the hobby. It was an arbitrary boundary, sure, but it also matched my own introduction to RPGs and, judging by reader comments, it often matched theirs too.
Alas, time moves on and here we are in 2025. Even the mid-1990s are now three decades in the past, which makes it worth looking back at some of the games from that era that have been overlooked. These titles might not feel “old school” in the classic sense and that’s okay. Grognardia has never been solely about old school gaming; it’s also about my memories of my own early days – and that sometimes means revisiting games that came later, but which still left a mark.
One of those games is The Whispering Vault, a small-press horror RPG that feels like a strange, almost forgotten cousin to the more well-known Vampire: The Masquerade. Written by Mike Nystul (of Nystul's magic aura fame) and published in 1994, The Whispering Vault focuses on Stalkers, immortal beings who carry out their cosmic hunt in a weird, unsettling universe. The game's approach to horror is quite distinctive, especially when compared to other horror games before or during its initial release, being at once heroic, moral, and surreal.
Where Vampire (and the rest of White Wolf's "World of Darkness" games) explored personal horror and moral ambiguity, The Whispering Vault offered something equally unusual: a horror game in which the characters are empowered, not paralyzed, by the supernatural. Its Stalkers are once-mortal agents of the Primal Powers who move between the Realm of Flesh and the Realm of Essence to hunt the Unbidden, alien intruders whose presence corrupts reality. Each Stalker inhabits a personal Domain in the Realm of Essence and manifests in the mortal world through a Vessel, a form that conceals his inhuman nature while retaining traces of his former self.
Mechanically, the game is fairly simple, using dice pools, attribute checks, and the judicious use of Disciplines and Servitors allow for a kind of "cinematic," narrative-driven play without bogging down in minutiae. While the system is easy to grasp, the game’s appeal lay more in its structure and tone. The Hunts on which the Stalkers went provided a clear goal, while the Stalkers’ moral and metaphysical responsibilities gave their work weight. Horror came not from helplessness, but from obligation, from the consequences of failing to protect the Realm of Flesh, and from confronting entities whose motives are alien and inscrutable.
The result is a game that feels both very much of its time and ahead of it. Its publisher, Pariah Press, was small and didn't have great reach. Likewise, the game's dense, sometimes opaque terminology kept it from reaching a broad audience. However, those who did find a copy found it strangely intriguing, helped no doubt by its excellent and evocative art. The Whispering Vault was nothing like older horror RPGs, like Call of Cthulhu, nor did it bare more than a superficial resemblance to White Wolf's stable. Instead, it offered a distinct, almost heroic take on horror.
As I mentioned previously, the Stalkers’ role is to mend the damage caused by the Unbidden, restore balance, and act as moral agents in a world most people cannot perceive. The game supports this through mechanics such as the Five Keys, objects that anchor a Stalker’s identity and powers, and through the structure of their Hunts. Hunts are self-contained scenarios, intended for use as pick-up games, which is another way that The Whispering Vault sets itself apart from other horror games. Though campaign play is, of course, possible and supported, it's not the only way to approach the game, nor was it what it was originally designed for.
Here's another public post from my Patreon about the development of Dream-Quest. As always, I invite comments on the post, since I'm still turning over ideas in my head and appreciate other perspectives. In this particular case, I have a pretty good idea of how I plan to proceed, but it's still good to hear from others.
Sometimes, an article, adventure, or even an entire game can exert a peculiar kind of influence over you, even though, viewed objectively, it’s not especially remarkable. I don’t mean that it’s bad, only that what it offers is, on the surface, mostly common sense. Most readers would nod in agreement, turn the page, and quickly forget about it – but you’re not most readers. For whatever reason, the author’s words reach you at exactly the right time and something clicks. The ideas linger. They grow. They shape how you see the hobby and, in some small but lasting way, how you play.
That’s what happened to me with “Playing the Political Game” by Mike Beeman, published in issue #90 of Dragon (October 1984). Beeman isn’t a name I associate with any other major contributions to the magazine and, by most measures, this article isn’t a landmark. Yet, when I first read it, just shy of my fifteenth birthday, it was nothing short of a revelation. It was the first time anyone had suggested to me that politics could be the central focus of adventures or even entire campaigns.
Beeman argues that politics isn’t an intrusion into fantasy roleplaying but its natural evolution. After all, nearly everything adventurers do already has political consequences, whether toppling tyrants, slaying monsters that guard vital resources, or flooding a town’s economy with treasure. At low levels, these effects remain background noise. But as heroes rise in power by claiming fiefs, leading troops, and attracting followers, they inevitably become political actors. So why not embrace that reality deliberately and make politics a conscious part of the game’s action?
He goes further, contending that political play adds depth, realism, and moral challenge to a campaign. Where the dungeon tests courage and cunning, the court tests judgment and restraint. Ruling a realm or maneuvering among rival nobles requires players to think beyond combat rolls and saving throws, to weigh alliances, read motives, and face the consequences of their decisions. Politics, in Beeman’s hands, becomes not a dry digression but a stage for high-stakes, character-driven adventure.
What made the article truly stand out to me, though, was how practical it was. Beeman treats political scenarios as a kind of “social dungeon,” where familiar design principles still apply but in subtler ways. The setting might be a player’s own domain or a foreign court; the plot a brewing war, a trade dispute, or a palace intrigue; and the monsters a web of scheming nobles, rival factions, and hidden traitors. Clues replace traps, words replace weapons, and mystery, not combat, drives the scenario.
Even more memorably, Beeman classifies political adventures into distinct types – military, economic, commercial, internal security, and revolt – each offering a different framework for turning governance and intrigue into adventure. In doing so, he sketches a vision of AD&D that extends far beyond treasure maps and monster lairs. It's a world that feels alive and reactive, where power comes with responsibility and every decision has weight.
Arneson, as everyone reading this surely knows, was one of the two men without whom Dungeons & Dragons (and, by extension, the entire hobby of roleplaying) would never have come to be. Yet, despite that foundational role, his name and his contributions are too often overlooked, overshadowed, or, worse still, treated as footnotes to someone else’s story. It’s as though we remember him only when we’re reminded to, rather than as a matter of course.
As this year shows, I’m as guilty of this as anyone. I should have remembered October 1 instinctively, the way I do July 27, Gary Gygax’s birthday. The fact that I didn’t speaks volumes, not about Arneson himself, but about how unevenly we remember our own history. Arneson’s legacy is not just that he co-created a game; it’s that he opened the door to an entirely new form of play, one that invited imagination, collaboration, and improvisation in ways no game had before.
His Blackmoor campaign remains one of the great, underappreciated achievements in the history of the hobby. It was the first sustained experiment in what we now take for granted: a shared world, evolving through the choices of its players. So much of what defines roleplaying today, like the open-ended campaign, the emphasis on character, the freedom to explore an imagined world rather than simply play through a fixed scenario, traces back to the quiet, curious mind of a young man running games in Minnesota in the early 1970s.
Forgetting Arneson is easy precisely because his influence is everywhere. It has become invisible through ubiquity. Every time we sit down at a table together (real or virtual), describe what our characters do, and ask, “What happens next?," we are living in the world he imagined. We rarely stop to think about that, not because we’re ungrateful, but because the roots of the hobby have sunk so deep we no longer see them.
Perhaps that’s the real issue. Arneson’s case is just the most visible example of how the contributions of countless others – designers, artists, playtesters, editors, and even just fans – have been forgotten. The history of roleplaying is not just the story of a few Great Men, but of a community of experimenters and dreamers, most of whose names never made it onto any game’s credits page. Our hobby, like any living thing, was nurtured by many unseen hands.
So, while this post began as an apology for my forgetting Dave Arneson’s birthday, perhaps it should instead serve as a reminder simply to remember. To remember Arneson, certainly, but also to remember all those who came after him – and before him – who helped shape the peculiar, beautiful pastime that continues to inspire all of us more than fifty years on.
The so-called Golden Age of the pulps is today remembered primarily for the works of H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. That’s understandable. Together, the three formed a kind of triumvirate within Weird Tales and beyond, shaping much of what readers still think of when they imagine “pulp fantasy” or “weird fiction.” Their influence looms large not only over their own era but over nearly a century of horror and fantasy writing since.
Still, this focus has a downside. Many other pulp authors, while less visionary or distinctive, nonetheless produced work that remains both entertaining and effective. Their stories remind us that the pulps were not just breeding grounds for a few singular talents but entire ecosystems of imagination that, while crowded and uneven, was undeniably fertile. Among these lesser-remembered figures stands Henry Kuttner, a writer whose early solo work deserves far more attention than it now generally receives.
Today, Kuttner is probably remembered – if he’s remembered at all – in connection with his more famous wife and collaborator, C.L. Moore. Together, the two wrote numerous tales of science fiction and fantasy under various pseudonyms. Yet, before that partnership, Kuttner had already made a name for himself in Weird Tales, contributing stories in a grimmer, more immediate vein than the cosmic mythologizing of Lovecraft. His early horror fiction was leaner, less ornate, and more preoccupied with human frailty than with the vast indifference of the universe.
A prime example is “The Graveyard Rats,” which appeared in the March 1936 issue of Weird Tales. Barely a few pages long, the story has nevertheless become one of Kuttner’s most reprinted works, appearing in anthologies for nearly ninety years. Its endurance is no accident. “The Graveyard Rats” distills horror to its most basic elements of darkness, confinement, corruption, and fear without pretense or embellishment.
The story takes place in Salem, Massachusetts, where Old Masson, the caretaker of a cemetery, has discovered that fresh corpses are being disturbed by unnaturally large rats. These creatures, clever and relentless, drag the dead into their tunnels beneath the graveyard. Masson is less horrified than enraged, not out of respect for the dead but because the rats are stealing valuables he considers his by right. He’s long supplemented his meager income by rifling through the pockets of the newly buried and he resents the competition. Determined to reclaim his spoils, he descends into the tunnels after the vermin – and into a nightmare.
What follows is a relentless sequence of claustrophobic terror. Kuttner’s prose is stripped down but effective, evoking the choking darkness and shifting earth with dreadful precision. As Masson crawls deeper underground, his greed and fear fuse into panic until, finally, he becomes trapped in a tomb, unable to move forward or back, as the rats swarm closer. The ending is swift and merciless, a perfect punchline of pulp horror. I first encountered the tale in an old anthology called The Graveyard Reader, which I remember for its bizarre cover art and, even more, for the shock this short story delivered.
“The Graveyard Rats” is almost a model of what Weird Tales specialized in: concise, lurid, and designed to deliver a visceral jolt. It lacks Lovecraft’s cosmic scope and Smith’s luxuriant prose, but that simplicity is its strength. The story’s imagery touches on primal fears of the dark, the grave, the sensation of the earth closing in around you. It’s a morality play as well, reminding readers that greed and desecration invite their own form of damnation. Its lesson is as blunt as its prose, suggesting that there are worse fates than poverty and some appetites lead only to hell, if only metaphorically.
Startled by the vastness of the choices before them, Kirktá, Keléno, and their companions found themselves overwhelmed by questions. Sinustragán answered as best he could, his tone patient but edged with the fatigue of one who must translate Eternity into the language of mortals. Many of their inquiries simply had no answer that would make sense to minds bounded by the narrow corridors of Time. At last, with a faint smile that might have been amusement or pity, he said, “Before you lie many possibilities, though not all equally probable. Since I wish to return you to a place and a moment suited to your natures, it would help me greatly if you first chose who you wish to see seated upon the Petal Throne in that branch of the Tree of Time.”
The company fell into uneasy debate. Each of the imperial heirs had their champions and each had flaws that weighed against them. Yet, as the talk wound on, a quiet consensus began to form. Rereshqála, they agreed, was the wisest choice. He lacked the burning ambition of his brothers and sister, but in that very restraint lay his strength. Calm, judicious, and burdened with no illusions of grandeur, he seemed best suited to guide the Empire through the long twilight ahead.
He could not halt the decline of Tsolyánu – no one could, now that the One Other was free – but he might ensure that its fall was not ruin, only transformation. Under his rule, the Empire’s fragments might endure and, in some distant age, rise again to greatness.
Sinustragán inclined his head in acknowledgment of their choice. “Very well,” he said. “Now that you have decided which cluster of branches within the Tree of Time you wish to return to, we must narrow it further. What of yourselves? What do you wish for your own skeins of destiny? There are almost as many fates for each of you as there are for the scions of the Petal Throne. Which threads will you choose?”
The question hung in the air like incense smoke, curling and reforming as each of them turned it over in their minds. Once again, the hall filled with talk, earnest, uncertain, sometimes wistful, as the members of the House of Worms and their companions debated what they truly wanted. Sinustragán waited in silence, patient as the slow pulse of eternity, until at last they came to him one by one.
Grujúng spoke first. His voice was steady, almost relieved. He asked to be returned to Sokátis, where the Ranánga River wound through familiar reeds and mist. There, he wished only to fish once more, to sit among the children and grandchildren of his clan-brothers and sisters. “No more adventures,” he said. “Only peace.”
Nebússa and his wife, Srüna, wished to remain at the College and learn its secrets. Sinustragán’s eyes softened, though he shook his head. “Not yet,” he told them gently. “If this truly is your desire, you must continue your studies. Grow in wisdom and mastery. When the time is right, the College will find you again.”
Chiyé laughed and declared his intent to take the longer road to the same goal. He would become undead, he said, and persist until the End of Time itself. Sinustragán’s laughter joined his in a quiet, knowing sound. “Then I wish you patience,” he said, “for that is a very long road indeed.”
Kirktá and Nye’étha chose to travel with Nebússa and Srüna, to study beside them and strive toward that same distant calling. “Perhaps,” Kirktá said, “we may all be found worthy one day.”
Qurén wished to return to Jakálla, the City Half as Old as the World. His eyes gleamed at the thought of long-delayed work resumed, exploring the ancient Mihálli ruins as he had once been hired to do. With Rereshqála now upon the Petal Throne, perhaps the expedition would be even grander than before.
Finally, Keléno spoke. He wished to return to Sokátis with his wife, Mírsha, to restore the old gazebo in the gardens of the clanhouse. There, at sunset, he would recline with a cup of wine and a book, welcoming any friend who wished to sit beside him and talk. It was a simple dream, but in the hush that followed his words, it seemed to all of them a noble one.
Keléno’s eyes lit with recognition. “So, you are Toneshkéthu’s master, then?”
A flicker of approval crossed the teacher’s face, quickly gone. He gave a short nod. “Yes and it is because of her that I have brought you here. She is very fond of you and wished no harm to come to you, so far as that can be prevented – but you cannot remain. You are neither students enrolled nor scholars invited to teach. The College has its laws and they must be kept. You must return. The only question is to where?"
Once again, Keléno and his companions found themselves unprepared. Having somehow survived their confrontation with Dhich’uné, all they longed for was safety. The College at the End of Time certainly offered that, but it was equally clear they did not belong here and, more importantly, that they would not be permitted to remain. The question was not if they must leave, but where they should ask to be sent.
Their debate circled between Sokátis, the familiar refuge of home, and Jakálla, which Qurén favored. As they argued, Sinustragán cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the stillness.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I fear I have misled you. That is my fault. I speak as one who dwells in the College. Here, where and when are bound together in a way they are not for you. When I asked to what place you wished to return, I also meant: to what time?”
The revelation broke over them like a sudden storm, sparking another round of frantic discussion. Again the teacher raised his hand to still them.
“Remember this,” he cautioned. “We, here at the College, may walk the full span of the Tree of Time, across its trunk and down every branch. You cannot. For you, the span is limited only to the moment before you entered the passage that brought you here. I can return you to that point, but, from there, you may choose among the leaves and branches that grow from your cluster of time. And there are many.”
