Embodied

I'm still catching up on everything I left behind while attending Gamehole Con XII last week, which is why I've fallen a bit behind on my usual posting schedule here, as well as on Patreon and Substack. I apologize for that, but such is life. I figure I'll settle back into my usual rhythm by the coming weekend, if not sooner. I, unfortunately, have a lot to do this week that doesn't involve my online life – like preparing for the first session of the new campaign I'm starting with the former House of Worms players. I'll talk more about that particular topic soon, but, for now, I wanted to continue with some thoughts occasioned by my time in Madison, Wisconsin.

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.

In the course of our many conversations at the con, my friend said something that struck me as both insightful and absolutely true. He remarked that one of the great things about our hobby is that, unlike most others, it’s entirely possible (and even likely) that, if you attend a convention, you’ll meet the very people who helped create something you love. And he’s right. Throughout the convention, I regularly chatted with Marc Miller, the creator of Traveller, swapping thoughts and stories as if we were old friends. If you’re a fan of a particular actor or director, the odds of ever spending time with them, let alone engaging in a long, thoughtful conversation, are practically nil. In this hobby, though, that kind of connection isn’t rare or guarded by velvet ropes. All it really takes is showing up with curiosity and a love of the game.

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.

It’s easy to forget, especially when so much of our engagement now takes place online, that this is a living, breathing culture made up of people who still gather, talk, and play together. Conventions like Gamehole Con are a reminder of that. They're little oases where the virtual becomes tangible and the hobby renews itself through conversation and camaraderie. Each year I attend, I come home not only inspired to create more but also profoundly grateful to be part of something that remains, at its heart, so wonderfully human.