Reconsiderations: Old School

Believe it or not, at the very dawn of what came to be called the Old School Renaissance, there was a lot of handwringing, both within its ranks and outside them, over just what was meant by the term "old school." 

Now, I don't recall when I first heard the term applied either to Dungeons & Dragons specifically or to roleplaying games more generally, nor can I pinpoint its precise origin. I have a vague recollection that it was one of those things that was spontaneously generated on the pre-social media Internet in the late '90s or early 2000s, but, as I said, I can't be certain. Regardless, I am pretty sure that the term predated the OSR by some years and generally meant something roughly equivalent to "D&D/RPG from the 70's and/or '80s," with some degree of fuzziness around the edges, both temporally and conceptually.

A lot of people assume that the Old School Renaissance was simply a reaction to the excesses of late 3e and I think there's much truth in this. In my own case, unhappiness with the state of Third Edition played a big role, which is ironic, since 3e had brought me back to Dungeons & Dragons in the first place after having largely abandoned the game several years prior. However, I suspect the roots of the OSR go back even farther, into the dying days of TSR, when AD&D Second Edition was itself a bloated and incoherent mess of a game. Some might stretch things even farther back, looking at the rise of "narrative" and "storytelling" games in the '90s as important data points.

I mention all of this simply as background to what will be my first reconsiderations post. Given the wide range of topics that I'll likely be covering as I write this series, I thought it useful to begin with something very basic and indeed foundational. I also thought it an important subject, because, in the eighteen years since I started this blog, my perspective on this matter have become clearer, if not necessarily different from what I have previously written. In the past, I might have been more circumspect in how I defined "old school" and what I understood it to mean, now I feel as if I have a more solid sense of things.

For me, "old school" is, paradoxically, a modern term. It's obviously not a term anyone "back in the day" would have used to describe D&D or any other RPG, for the simple reason that "old school" is a comparative term, one that depends on time having passed and there being multiple iterations of a game to compare to one another. "Old school" is, therefore, a retrospective category, one invented after the fact to identify certain common features, assumptions, and practices associated with the hobby's earlier years. Like all such categories, it is necessarily imperfect. The people who created and played these games in the 1970s and '80s did not think of themselves as participating in an "old school" style of play; they were simply playing roleplaying games as they understood them.

This is one reason why I have always thought the "R" in OSR stood for "renaissance." A renaissance is not a simple return to the past. It's an attempt to recover something from the past that is believed to possess enduring value, even though the very act of recovery inevitably reshapes it. The artists and scholars of the Renaissance did not recreate the art and ideals of Classical Antiquity they so admired. Neither did the Protestant Reformers did not restore the primitive Christianity they felt had become obscured under centuries of accretions. Both were instances of later generations looking backward for inspiration while simultaneously creating something new, whether they intended to do so or not.

That's also true of the OSR. Whatever else it may have been, the Old School Renaissance was never merely an exercise in preservation. Certainly, there were those whose chief concern was keeping older games alive and accessible. Without their efforts, many important texts and traditions might well have disappeared. Yet, from its earliest days, the OSR was also a creative movement. The proliferation of retro-clones, house rules, and entirely new games inspired by older ones quite quickly made that abundantly clear. Even when its devotees claimed to be "returning" to the roots of the hobby, they were doing so from a historical vantage point that could not help but influence – and, occasionally, distort – their understanding of those roots.

That's why I would argue that the category of "old school" only emerged because the hobby had changed. Certain features of earlier roleplaying games and styles of play came to be seen as distinctive precisely because they were no longer taken for granted. I think this helps explain why debates over the meaning of "old school" were (and remain) so contentious. The term refers neither to a specific type of rules nor to a particular historical period. Rather, it points toward a collection of loosely related ideas, assumptions, and practices drawn from the hobby's formative decades. Different people naturally emphasize different elements of that inheritance. Some focus on rules, while others focus on adventure design, campaign structure, referee authority, player agency, or any number of other factors. None of these perspectives is wholly wrong, because "old school" is itself a modern effort to make sense of a diverse and often contradictory past.

That's why nowadays, when I speak of "old school," I do not mean a museum piece or a slavish recreation of how roleplaying games were played in 1977, 1982, or any other year. Neither do I mean a particular game, edition, or collection of mechanics. Rather, I mean a tradition of play, one that took shape during the hobby's formative decades and whose characteristic assumptions can still be discerned beneath the considerable diversity of the games now associated with it.

Those assumptions are precisely what I mean by "old school." They have less to do with descending armor class, race-as-class, or any other rules idiosyncrasy than with a particular understanding of the relationship between players, referees, characters, and settings. They concern what roleplaying games are for, how they are meant to be played, and what kinds of experiences they are best suited to provide. The details will necessarily vary from game to game and table to table, but I think there is nevertheless a coherent thread running through them. It is that thread, rather than any single rules system or historical period, that I now understand to have been the true subject of the Old School Renaissance (and, by extension, this blog).

By Any Other Name (Part II)

A couple of years ago, I wrote a post in which I briefly touched on the variety of names by which the Game Master or referee is known in older roleplaying games. Since I'm currently knee-deep in revising Thousand Suns, which uses the term GM, I found my mind wandering a bit back to this topic, trying to remember what alternate terms the RPGs of my youth employed. 

A quick check through my library revealed the following, but, as ever, I am certain I missed some important ones. Feel free to fill in any obvious blanks in the comments. I have intentionally not included games whose term is Dungeon Master, Game Master, or referee, since these aren't especially noteworthy.

• Ars Magica: Storyguide
• Call of Cthulhu: Keeper of Arcane Lore
• Chill: Chill Master
• Ghostbusters: Ghostmaster
• Golden Heroes: Script Supervisor
• Marvel Super Heroes: Judge
• Skyrealms of Jorune: Sholari
• Space Opera: StarMaster
• Star Ace: Campaign Master
• Starfaring: Galaxy Master
• Star Trek (Heritage): Mission Master
• The Fantasy Trip: Fantasy Master
• The Morrow Project: Project Director
• Timemaster: Continuum Master
• Toon: Animator
• Top Secret: Administrator

As I'm said, I'm sure there are others, especially after 1990 or thereabouts. Still, I must confess I was a bit surprised by how few I could identify. My recollection was that, back in the day, every roleplaying game had its own unique name for the referee, but I suppose I was mistaken. 

Neither Primitive Nor Professional

I have some muddled thoughts about publishing, old school esthetics, and related matters over Grognardia Games Direct. 

Neither Primitive Nor Professional by James Maliszewski

Rambling Thoughts about the Esthetics of the Old School

Read on Substack

Special Delivery

Last month, I mentioned Barrows & Borderlands, a new old school RPG created by Matthew Tapp. A couple of days ago, my copy of the 4-volume boxed set arrived in the mail and I was so impressed with it that I wanted to show it off. Here's the front of the OD&D-inspired woodgrain boxed set.

 Here's the side of the box.

This is a shot of the open box, with all four of its integral volumes: Men & Mutants, Psychics & Sorcerers, Horrors & Treasure, and The Underworlds & Borderlands Adventures. 

I have not yet had a chance to delve deeply into the books yet, but what I have seen so far has really impressed me, all the more so, because, as I mentioned previously, Matthew and the players in his campaign are all much younger than the usual cohort for old school roleplaying games. It's really heartening to see the spirit of the old days is still very much alive, even among people less than half my age. 

I'll have more to say about B&B in the days to come. 

Story Isn't the Enemy

Among the many shibboleths of the Old School Renaissance, few are as enduring as the rejection of "story," "plot," and "narrative" in roleplaying games. These terms are often treated like contaminants, indicators that something has gone awry in a campaign or adventure. Speak of "story" without the usual ritual denunciations and you're liable to be accused of abandoning the principles of old school play.

I understand where this aversion comes from. Since the earliest days of this blog, I've often shared it. At the same time, I don't believe stories have no place in roleplaying games. However, like many others, my earliest experience as a roleplayer were from a time when attempts to inject "story," – by which I mean a deliberate, authorial structure of rising and falling action, dramatic turning points, and satisfying resolutions – were usually ham-fisted at best and outright railroads at worst.

There’s a reason why one of Grognardia’s most widely read (and most frequently argued about) posts is “How Dragonlance Ruined Everything.” The post touched a nerve because it spoke to something many of us experienced firsthand: modules and campaigns that confused narrative structure with narrative control. These were adventures where the outcomes were preordained, its dramatic beats carefully plotted, and the players expected to play along rather than play through. The referee, in such cases, became less an impartial adjudicator and more a frustrated novelist trying to drag the player characters through a plot that offered very little in the way of choice. Unsurprisingly, this left a bad taste in the mouths of those who cherished the open-ended freedom of the early days.

But here’s the thing: an emergent story is still story.

Take my House of Worms campaign for Empire of the Petal Throne. More than a decade of weekly play has produced a very detailed chronicle of events, consisting of actions taken, choices made, consequences endured, victories won, and, occasionally, defeats suffered. None of this was plotted out in advance. Most of it arose organically, through the interaction of player decisions, random tables, misread intentions, and lucky – or bad – rolls. Yet, looking back, I can trace arcs and patterns. I can recount the rise and fall of rivalries and the strange twists of fate that brought certain aspects of the campaign to greater prominence while others dropped away. I can talk about betrayals and reconciliations, discoveries and reversals. That’s a story. It may not be a tidy one. It may not resolve neatly – but it's a story nonetheless.

Too often, I think certain strands of OSR thought fails to acknowledge this and I don't exclude myself from this criticism. In rejecting plotted stories, we too quickly rejected the very idea of story itself. However, stories don’t have to be plotted. They don’t have to follow the Hero’s Journey. They don’t even need to have a central protagonist. They can simply emerge from play, from the piling up of decisions and consequences, the unpredictable results of dice rolls, and the slow evolution of characters over time. This is, in my view, one of the greatest strengths of the hobby.

Likewise, many classic modules – yes, even old school ones – contain what we might call a plot, even if it's implicit or only lightly sketched. A fortress inhabited by giants who've been raiding civilized lands is not just a list of rooms and monsters. It's a framework for conflict, danger, and mystery. It implies certain questions and challenges: Who are these giants? What do they want? Why are they raiding the lands of Men? These questions don’t force a narrative, but they do provide the raw material out of which one might grow. A good adventure isn’t inert; it suggests motion and consequence, even if it doesn’t prescribe them.

That’s where I think the OSR’s kneejerk hostility to “story” often goes astray. It’s an understandable overreaction, but an overreaction nonetheless. It’s shaped by the bad experiences of railroads, boxed text, and scripted scenes. However, in pushing back against those things, we risk throwing out something valuable. If we mistake any form of narrative structure for narrative imposition, we blind ourselves to one of the most powerful and rewarding aspects of roleplaying: the ability to discover a story in play, rather than impose one from above.

The truth is that most open-ended, player-driven campaigns do produce stories. Often, they’re some of the most compelling stories in gaming, precisely because no one saw them coming. They're not crafted to deliver a message or to hit emotional beats on cue. They arise naturally, shaped by the decisions of players and the impartial logic of dice. We should be able to recognize that without fear. Story isn’t the enemy; control is. Let the dice decide, let the players choose and the story will take care of itself.

Barrows & Borderlands

A reader recently pointed me toward Barrows & Borderlands, a charming OD&D-inspired game that began life over a decade ago as a high school 5e campaign. Since then, it’s evolved into something truly unique. I highly recommend following the link above to learn more, but I especially encourage you to watch the short video below featuring the game’s creator, Matthew Tapp. In it, he shares the story of how B&B came to be.

What makes the video particularly heartening (especially for old-timers like me) is that Matthew and his group are young players who discovered the pleasures of old-school play entirely on their own. I was also delighted to see the video was filmed at the Green Dragon, a game store in Charleston, South Carolina that I visited in my youth, where I bought my copy of the D&D Companion set (though it now seems to be in a different location).

If you’ve got a few minutes, give it a watch. It’s well worth your time.

Kumbaya

As you’ve probably guessed from the kinds of posts I’ve been writing lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the hobby has changed, not just since I was young, but in more recent years, too.

In my younger days, what bound us together wasn’t ideology or identity or even agreement. It was something much simpler and, I think, more powerful: a shared love of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and roleplaying games. We didn’t always see eye to eye. We didn’t always get along, but we read the same dog-eared books (gaming and otherwise), argued about alignment and racial level limits, and gathered around the same tables to roll dice. That was enough.

We were a ragtag lot, diverse not so much in the narrow, contemporary demographic sense (though that too, to a degree), but in personality, taste, and temperament. There were the older, bearded guys who got their start with Tactics; the teenagers who smelled like patchouli and wore jackets covered in band patches; the metalheads, the comic book obsessives, the Tolkien scholars-in-training, the stoners, the would-be novelists, and that one guy who knew way too much about the Wehrmacht’s order of battle in 1944 and wouldn’t stop bringing it up. Somehow, we all managed to coexist – or at least we played together and that, I think, is its own kind of getting along.

What I find disheartening now is how often that spirit seems absent. There’s a growing impulse, coming from multiple directions, to draw hard lines about what’s acceptable to play, read, like, or even talk about without a disclaimer. I’m not talking about politics, at least not primarily. I mean the way taste itself is increasingly treated as a moral signal. “You still play Empire of the Petal Throne? What’s wrong with you?” Or: “You’re using Mörk Borg? That’s not real old school.” I’ve heard both this year, more than once, along with others, just as silly.

There’s nothing wrong with preferences. No one should be shamed or pressured into liking what they don’t like. That was true in 1982 and it’s true now. Back then, plenty of people I knew scoffed at Arduin or rolled their eyes at RuneQuest. I’m not going to pretend we didn’t argue fiercely about whether, for example, spell slots or spell points were “better.” That kind of good-natured rivalry was part of the fun. Even now, I enjoy lobbing the occasional jab in the direction of certain games or game mechanics. I’m not claiming the moral high ground.

However, I think there’s a difference between ribbing your friend for liking Rolemaster and declaring that certain games, creators, or communities are beyond the pale and that merely engaging with them puts you under suspicion. That’s not rivalry. That’s excommunication. It's coming from all sides. Depending on who's speaking, the OSR is either a toxic boys' club of crypto-fascists or a co-opted safe space for woke poseurs who don’t really “get” old games. Try saying that not every game choice is a political act and that maybe you just like what you like and you’ll find yourself viewed with suspicion by both camps.

It's exhausting and, frankly, it's absurd.

When I was a kid, the fact that someone played Chivalry & Sorcery instead of AD&D might earn a few barbs, but no one was exiled. No one cared whether you thought the best sci-fi RPG was Traveller, Space Opera, or Universe (even though it's obviously Traveller). If you were into Tunnels & Trolls, sure, we might’ve thought you were a little weird, but you were our kind of weird. You were one of us. You knew where the lavatories were on the USS Enterprise. You could quote Monty Python and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy from memory. You subscribed to Dragon and read every page, even the fiction. You liked pretending to be a wizard or a starship captain or a mutant with a laser rifle. That was enough.

I miss that.

I’m not arguing that we all need to agree. We never did and, honestly, that was part of the joy – the clashes, the rivalries, the heated debates about initiative systems and critical hits. There’s a difference in my opinion between spirited disagreement and gatekeeping disguised as virtue. The hobby is big, messy, and contradictory. It always has been; that’s part of what makes it beautiful.

We could all stand to be a little more charitable, a little less quick to sort people into boxes, a little more willing to extend the benefit of the doubt. Curiosity, not conformity, is what brought most of us here in the first place.

When you strip away the noise, we’re all still what we’ve always been – Weirdos.

[Comments are now closed. Don't worry: there will be several new posts coming in the days to come that I am sure were generate just as many arguments. —JDM]

Ruins

Blogs were the tinder from which the fire of the Old School Renaissance was sparked. In the late 2000s and early 2010s, there was a genuine explosion of creativity across the RPG blogosphere, fueled by enthusiasm for old school Dungeons & Dragons and its many descendants, both literal and spiritual. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of blogs appeared, written by referees, players, professional designers, and amateur theorists eager to share ideas, reminiscences, house rules, and reflections on what made the earlier, pre-3e versions of D&D so compelling.

Grognardia was one of them and, like many others, it eventually went quiet. Real life has a way of asserting itself and even the most passionately pursued hobbies often yield before it. I was away from this blog for nearly eight years before returning and, somewhat to my surprise, the years since are more numerous than those before my hiatus, even if I no longer post at the same manic pace that nearly destroyed me. Unfortunately, many other wonderful blogs from that era haven’t returned. Most still exist in some fashion. You can find them if you look, but they are, for all practical purposes, ruins: silent, abandoned, and sometimes crumbling under the slow decay of broken image links and expired widgets.

That saddens me.

The OSR blogosphere was, in many ways, the intellectual and creative heart of a movement none of us fully understood while it was happening. Before social media transformed everything into a fast-scrolling feed of ephemeral opinions and algorithmic noise, blogs allowed for longer, more thoughtful engagement. There was conversation between blogs, even, perhaps especially, when we disagreed, as we frequently and passionately did. Posts would spark responses, build on shared ideas, or spin off in wild new directions. Someone would post a new take on alignment or a character class, and within days, if not hours, half a dozen other blogs would riff on the idea in a cascade of strange and wonderful interpretations. That kind of idea-driven collaboration was a joy to witness and to be part of.

Every so often, I revisit some of my old bookmarks: Sham’s Grog & Blog, Planet Algol, The Nine and Thirty Kingdoms, Beyond the Black Gate, The Society of Torch, Pole, and Rope, Malevolent & Benign, The Mule Abides, A Paladin in Citadel, Dreams of Mythic Fantasy, and many more whose names, sadly, I can no longer recall. Some blogs ended with a fond farewell. Far more simply stopped. A few sputter back to life from time to time, like torches catching momentarily in the damp before going out again.

I don’t blame anyone for moving on. We all have our seasons and many of those who once blogged now create elsewhere or simply play games without publicly sharing their thoughts. I did the same for a long while and there’s definitely something to be said for it. Still, I miss that earlier era, not just the quantity of content, but the spirit behind it. I miss the curiosity, the delight in obscure mechanics and half-forgotten rules, and, above all, the reckless, unfiltered creativity. I think a lot of us needed that back then. I know I did.

Much of that creative energy has since shifted to platforms like Discord, Reddit, Substack, or YouTube. Each has its own strengths, but none really replicates what the old blogs offered. Blogs were open and long-form. They rewarded thoughtfulness over immediacy. They were searchable and, maybe most importantly, linkable. You could stumble across a blogroll and find yourself falling into a rabbit hole of interconnected creativity that might last hours. That’s much harder to do now, where so much is hidden behind logins or paywalls or simply submerges into the stream of slop.

We can’t go back to 2009. I know that. Still, it’s worth remembering what was lost or at least what was left behind. Maybe, if a few more of us keep our torches lit, something like it can grow again – not a recreation but a continuation of the same spirit.

As any D&D player knows, ruins are places where treasure is found.

Dungeons & Dreamscapes

I’ve often said I feel fortunate to have discovered Dungeons & Dragons when I did, before the dead hand of brandification settled over the game and drained it of the wild, untamed esthetic that once made it so visually compelling and culturally strange. In the years before D&D became a polished entertainment “property,” its visual identity was a chaotic collage of influences drawn from unexpected sources: psychedelic counterculture, turn-of-the-century Art Nouveau, underground comix, pulp magazines, and outsider art. Monsters leered with extra eyes and boneless limbs, while dungeons sprawled like fever dreams. There was a visual lawlessness to early D&D (and to roleplaying games more broadly) that mirrored the creative freedom of its rules. That freedom invited players to imagine fantasy worlds that were not simply adventurous, but also surreal, grotesque, and deeply personal.

These thoughts came back to me recently while flipping through some of the Dungeons & Dragons materials I encountered shortly after I took my first tentative steps into the hobby. Looking at them now, decades later, I’m struck not just by their content, but also by their form. Much of the art did not resemble anything I had seen before. It was crude at times, even amateurish by the standards of commercial illustration. Yet, it was also evocative in a way that transcended technique. These images did not so much depict a fantasy world as suggest one, obliquely, symbolically, even irrationally. Many felt like fragments from dreams or relics from some lost visionary tradition and, on some level, they were.

That tradition was a subterranean one, largely outside the orbit of mainstream fantasy art. Psychedelic poster designers, Symbolist painters, and zinesters working on the margins of the counterculture all contributed, consciously or not, to the strange visual DNA of early roleplaying games. Before branding demanded consistency and legibility, Dungeons & Dragons was porous enough to absorb all of it. The result was an esthetic that was both wildly eclectic and, paradoxically, cohesive in its weirdness. It didn’t feel like a mainstream product; it felt like artifacts from another world.

Today, it’s common to point to Tolkien as the primary visual and thematic influence on early D&D. His mark is real and unmistakable (despite what Gary Gygax wanted us to believe). However, when you examine the actual artwork that filled TSR’s products in the late 1970s and early ’80s – the era when I entered the hobby – you find yourself far from Middle-earth. Instead of noble elves and stoic rangers, you see grotesque creatures, warped anatomy, anatomical impossibilities, and alien geometries rendered in flat inks and, later, garish colors. This wasn’t the Shire. This was something older, more primal, and far stranger.

Where did this esthetic come from?

As I’ve already suggested, part of the answer lies in the psychedelic explosion of the 1960s. This was a cultural moment that sought to dissolve the boundaries between consciousness and art. Psychedelic artists like Rick Griffin and Victor Moscoso developed a visual language rooted in abstraction, distortion, and saturated color, a kind of sensory mysticism meant to evoke altered states. Concert posters and album covers became portals to other dimensions. Meanwhile, underground comix, like those of Robert Crumb or Vaughn Bodē, combined sex, satire, fantasy, and absurdism into worlds that gleefully rejected the conventions of good taste or coherent storytelling.

While Gygax and Arneson were not themselves products of this milieu, the audience they attracted often was – college students, sci-fi fans, and other oddballs shaped by the psychedelic visual environment of the late ’60s and early ’70s. I was younger than that cohort, a child in fact, not a teen or adult, but even I absorbed some of its esthetic currents. They filtered into my world through album covers, comics, cartoons, toys, and the hazy, low-fi look of the decade itself. I didn’t yet know what most of these things meant, but I nevertheless felt their strangeness. They stuck with me, shaping my imagination in ways I only later came to understand.

TSR, for its part, didn’t initially reflect these influences. Much of the earliest D&D art was traditional or utilitarian, inherited from the wargaming scene. As the game’s popularity exploded in 1979, TSR began to draw on a new crop of young illustrators, many of them influenced, directly or indirectly, by underground comix, countercultural poster art, and the lingering weirdness of the 1970s. Their work didn’t smooth out the chaos from which early D&D was born – it amplified it.

No one embodied this more than Erol Otus. His illustrations for the Basic and Expert boxed sets are among the most iconic in the history of the hobby, as well as some of the strangest. Otus’s monsters don’t just look dangerous; they look wrong, like something glimpsed in a fever or half-remembered from a dream. His color palettes are lurid, his anatomy grotesquely playful, his compositions uncanny and theatrical. His esthetic doesn’t belong to heroic fantasy. It belongs to a blacklight poster, hung next to a velvet mushroom print and a battered copy of The Teachings of Don Juan.

Otus, whether intentionally or not, brought the visual grammar of psychedelia into the core of D&D. In doing so, he captured something essential about the game: that it wasn’t just a fantastic medieval wargame; it was a tool for exploring the irrational, the liminal, the transformed. Other artists took up different parts of this same sensibility. Dave Trampier’s work, for example, especially his iconic AD&D Players Handbook cover, radiates a stillness and mystery more akin to myth or ritual than heroic adventure. Other similarly restrained pieces of early D&D likewise seem caught between worlds.

The same spirit is evident in third-party publications. Judges Guild modules are packed with crude, surreal illustrations that throb with symbolic weirdness. David Hargrave’s Arduin Grimoire goes even further. It's a deranged collage of cybernetic demons, magical diagrams, flying sharks, and bizarre maps that reads like D&D filtered through Zardoz. It’s no coincidence that Hargrave gave Otus his first professional credit. They were kindred spirits, working not within a genre, but along the outermost fringes of it.

Beyond psychedelia, another artistic thread ran through the background: the ornate, esoteric elegance of Art Nouveau. The flowing lines of Aubrey Beardsley, the sacred geometry of Alphonse Mucha, and the decadent mysticism of Gustav Klimt all haunt the margins of early RPG art. Beardsley’s illustrations for Salome or Le Morte d’Arthur look, at times, like direct ancestors to early D&D's depictions of witches, sorcerers, and demons. These fin de siècle influences were rediscovered during the 1960s counterculture and found their way, through posters, tarot decks, and zines, into the strange visual stew of early roleplaying games.

Even the dungeon itself is shaped by this visionary impulse. Early dungeons aren’t realistic structures. They’re mythic underworlds. They don’t obey architectural logic but symbolic logic, filled with teleporters, talking statues, secret doors, and fountains of infinite snakes. They’re not places so much as thresholds. To descend into a dungeon is to cross into a space where transformation of one kind or another is not only possible but expected.

That’s why so many early modules have such power decades later. Quasqueton, Castle Amber, White Plume Mountain, The Ghost Tower of Inverness – they’re not just combat arenas. They’re almost spiritual landscapes, mythic spaces presented as keyed maps. The artwork used to depict them conjures a mood, a worldview, a sense of mystery, inviting players to see fantasy not as genre convention, but almost as a moment of altered perception.

However, as D&D became a brand, this strangeness was steadily scrubbed away. Style guides were introduced. Idiosyncratic artists gave way to professionals. The game’s visuals became cleaner, more representational, more standardized. With that polish came a flattening of the imagination. D&D no longer looked like a vision; it looked like product.

This, I think, is what so many of us in the early days of the Old School Renaissance were reaching for, even if we couldn’t name it at the time. We were looking for the weirdness again, for the ecstatic, chaotic, sometimes unsettling energy that marked those early years. We remembered when fantasy didn’t have to be safe or heroic or respectable. We remembered when D&D looked like a door to Somewhere Else.

That's because fantasy, properly understood, is not an esthetic. It is a vision of the world tilted just enough to let the impossible shine through. Like the pioneers of science fiction and fantasy, the early artists of Dungeons & Dragons understood this. Otus understood it. Trampier understood it. So did Beardsley, Griffin, and countless anonymous illustrators working on mimeographed zines and early rulebooks in the 1970s. They weren’t just drawing monsters or dungeons. They weren’t just illustrating rules. They were revealing other worlds.

The Petal Throne Has Thorns

Recently, I sent a message to the players on our House of Worms campaign Discord server. It was, in essence, a warning.

This is not meant to frighten anyone.

Now that I've succeeded in frightening everyone, here it is: From this point on in the campaign, the gloves are off. 

By that I mean, we're nearing the End and that means anything can happen, including characters dying. Obviously, there are means to bring them back cough, *cough, cough Aíthfo* but there's no guarantee of that, especially given how things are going. I bring this up only because I'm committed to the campaign's conclusion being a tense and uncertain one in every way. Though I've never held back in letting the dice fall where they may *cough, cough, Aíthfo*, things may nevertheless get even nastier than they ever have before and I feel an obligation to remind everyone that no one has Plot Armor.

Have a nice day. 😊

It’s a bit tongue-in-cheek, but the underlying message is serious: after more than a decade of weekly play, the House of Worms campaign is approaching its conclusion. The characters, most of whom have been in play for years, are not guaranteed a happy ending, let alone a heroic one. They can fail. They can die. They might even die pointlessly, offhandedly, from a bad roll at the wrong moment.

That’s all par for the course in a proper old school RPG campaign, of course, but I felt compelled to remind the players. As I’ve likely said many times over the years, House of Worms is light on dice rolls outside of combat and combat itself is rare outside the underworld. Most sessions consist almost entirely of roleplaying in one form or another and the players are very good at it. More often than not, they resolve their problems through conversation, manipulation, and clever schemes rather than through swordplay or spellcraft. Much as I love that – and I do, given my longstanding dislike of combat – I sometimes worry it’s made them a little too comfortable. A little too safe.

From what I read online and have sometimes even observed "in the wild," there's a tacit expectation in a lot of contemporary gaming circles that player characters are protagonists will, therefore, reach the end of a campaign. They might suffer, they might be scarred, but they'll get there. There's an implicit contract between referee and player that, so long as you show up and play your character, you'll at least survive to the final scene. Old school play usually doesn't work out that way and, at least in my interpretation of it, Tékumel especially doesn’t work that way.

Tékumel is a setting where the gods are real, inscrutable, and often indifferent. It's a place of Byzantine scheming, hidden pacts, and ancient horrors. A misplaced word or an ill-advised alliance can unravel everything you've worked toward – and that’s glorious. As I conceive it, a Tékumel campaign should end the way it began: full of mystery, danger, and unpredictability. There's n script; there’s no "true ending." There's only what the players do and what the dice say about it.

I've always tried to referee the House of Worms campaign in a way that respects the players' choices – as well as the consequences of those choices. That doesn’t mean I'm out to kill their characters for shock value or for sport. However, it does mean that no character is safe just because they’re "important." If anything, being important only puts a larger target on a character's back. Indeed, that's been the pattern of this campaign since its inception in March 2015: each time the characters succeed, there's been an escalation in the stakes and the strength of the opposition. Where once they contended with local matters of small moment, now they're at the very heart of an imperial succession crisis, one that involves not just earthly power politics but the machinations of gods and demons. 

In playing House of Worms, what I’ve come to appreciate most about it and, by extension old school RPG campaigns more generally, is their fragility. There’s no safety net, no rewind button. The stakes are real and when the players realize that, when they know the character they've played for literally years could disappear into the void at any moment, the impact on play is considerable. That’s when the game transcends mere mechanics and becomes something else: a shared experience of genuine risk and reward.

So yes, the gloves are off, but they were never really on to begin with.

Have a nice day. 😊

Letting Someone Else Do Our Imagining

One of the most curious contradictions at the heart of our shared hobby is the tension between creativity and consumption, a topic I've wrestled with many times over the course of this blog’s history. From its very inception, the RPG hobby has encouraged its participants to be creators – of rules, settings, monsters, adventures, and more. Indeed, the earliest editions of Dungeons & Dragons often go out of their way to emphasize this. In OD&D, for example, Gygax and Arneson famously invited referees to take what’s offered and build upon it, adapt it, and, where necessary, discard it. "Decide how you would like it to be," they write, "and then make it just that way!"

This sentiment, perhaps more than any other, is the heart of what we now call "old school" gaming. The referee is not just a consumer or a facilitator of rules, but a world-builder. The rules are scaffolding, not scripture. The game is yours: take what you want and leave the rest, as a wise old man once said.

And yet, not long after those exhortations to freewheeling invention, TSR and other publishers began selling roleplayers pre-made rulesets, adventures, and settings. The Keep on the Borderlands, Tegel Manor, Apple Lane, Buffalo Castle, and more, each is a vision conjured by someone else, lovingly detailed and made ready for us to explore. These modules are often excellent and many of them loom large in our collective memory. They are, paradoxically, personal experiences so many of us share in common, as I discussed here not that long ago. So many of us have cut our teeth on the same classic adventures or flipped through the same dog-eared setting material. There’s thus a strong communal identity wrapped up in those shared artifacts. They’re what unite us across decades and continents. Ask an old school gamer about Bargle or Strahd or Acererak and you're likely to get a grin of recognition and quite possibly a story or two.

This is the foundation of a shared culture – a canon, if you like, not of texts but of experiences. That canon was shaped not just by our own tables, but also by the creative work of others. TSR, Judges Guild, Chaosium, Flying Buffalo, FGU, each added to this rich stew with their own distinctive flavors. Griffin Mountain, City State of the Invincible Overlord, Death Test, Chivalry & Sorcery Sourcebook were all, in their own unique ways, invitations to play in someone else’s dream.

There lies a conundrum. For a hobby so rooted in individual creativity, if you look at its history, you’ll also notice a surprising dependence on the creations of others. We lionize the do-it-yourself ethos even as we buy a megadungeon, back yet another retro-clone project, or download a map someone else has made. We celebrate the idea that each campaign is unique, spun from the mind of a referee and shaped by the unpredictable actions of players – and yet we often start those very same campaigns in someone else’s sandbox. I know this all too well, because I’ve done it myself and indeed am doing so right now. None of my regular campaigns, including my long-running House of Worms campaign, takes place in a setting entirely born of my own imagination.

Is this a contradiction? Perhaps, but, at the same time, it’s also part of the strange alchemy that makes RPGs what they are. When we pick up someone else’s adventure, we’re not wholly surrendering our imaginations. I prefer to think we’re collaborating, whether with a professional designer from the days of yore or with a fellow hobbyist today. A good adventure module isn’t a finished "story," but rather a map, a toolkit, and even a provocation. We bring it to life. We personalize it. We fill in the gaps. Sometimes we’ll even discard half (or more!) of it. The best pre-made materials aren’t necessarily constraints on our creativity but catalysts for them.

Still, I often find myself pondering this seeming contradiction, in part because I’ve played a role, if only a small one, in the commercialization of the hobby. Over the decades, I’ve written and published my own works, contributed to the larger hobby, and of course, I’ve bought more than my fair share of games, modules, and other products, as my regular Retrospective posts can attest. So, I’ve benefited from this strange system, but I’m also wary of what it might cost us in the long run. Are we, little by little, outsourcing our imagination? Are we becoming too quick to look for a pre-packaged solution when we could come up with our own? Or are we, as we always have, simply standing on the shoulders of others to better see the worlds we want to build? I don’t know. There’s no easy answer.

That, too, might be the essence of the hobby. Roleplaying games are not a single thing; they’re an invitation, a process, a shared illusion that depends on both invention and inheritance. The game asks us to imagine, but it also invites us to share. And sometimes – just sometimes – sharing might mean letting someone else do a little of the imagining for us.

REVIEW: Knave (Second Edition)

By the mid-1990s, I'd had regular access to the Internet for a number of years and it was great. Forums and websites dedicated to RPGs of every kind were available at the click of a mouse button, offering all manner of interesting and useful content. While most of this content was dedicated to existing roleplaying games, some of it offered up new roleplaying games – the original creations of enthusiastic designers who recognized that they could use the Internet to get their own games to a vastly larger audience than would have ever been possible in the pre-digital age.

While Marcus Rowland's scientific romance RPG, Forgotten Futures is, for me, one of the best examples of these 1990s Internet-distributed games, I think it's fair to say that Steffan O'Sullivan's FUDGE is the most well-known and influential. I first became aware of FUDGE through a dear friend of mine, who felt that its loose, freeform mechanics provided would-be game designers the tools they needed to achieve their goals. At the time, he and I were hoping to put together our own science fiction RPG and so we took a lot of interest in FUDGE, whose "legal notice" was an early example of an open gaming license of the sort that would later propel the d20 System to prominence.

I found myself thinking about FUDGE recently as I read through the second edition of Ben Milton's Knave. Billed as "an exploration-driven fantasy RPG and worldbuilding toolkit, inspired by the best elements of the Old-School D&D movement.," Knave seemed, to my aged eyes, to have a lot in common with FUDGE. Whether one views that comparison as a good thing or a bad thing will, I think, determine your opinion of Knave. Before delving more deeply into this, though, I should explain that, prior to reading this new edition of the game, I wasn't all that familiar with Knave. Aside from Mörk Borg and Electric Bastionland, my knowledge of "ultra-light" RPGs was fairly limited and that no doubt colors what I have to say in this review.

The second edition of Knave is an 80-page digest-sized hardcover book available in both standard and premium formats, the main difference between the two (aside from price) being the cover design. Speaking of presentation, I should note that all of the book's artwork comes courtesy of Peter Mullen, whose artwork is well known (and loved) in the old school community. Their presence is quite welcome, since Knave's layout is otherwise simple and unpretentious, which, while a boon to clarity, tends toward the monotonous, especially in the many sections devoted to random tables. The book also includes a couple of two-page maps by Kyle Latino, which don't connect directly to anything in the text, so they serve more or less as artwork, too. 

As a set of rules, Knave is short and quite simple – so short that summaries of nearly everything needed to play fit on the four "pages" inside the front and back covers. I've seen plenty of other RPGs attempt to do this, but Knave is the first I can recall that succeeds. Indeed, I'm pretty sure it'd be possible to run the game using just these four pages and nothing else. That's no small feat, though, as I've already stated, it's only possible because the rules are short and simple. Most actions in Knave – called checks – are handled by a d20 roll modified by a character's appropriate ability score and any relevant modifiers and then compared against a target number (usually 16). Understand this basic mechanic and you understand Knave, with nearly everything else being an embellishment.

In his designer's commentary at the back of the book, Milton explains that he created Knave as "a hack of Basic D&D that [he] created for an after-school gaming club for 5th graders" and his "goal was to streamline and rationalize the rules so that players could learn the rules and create characters in just a few minutes and jump right into playing." Consequently, Knave's rules, while similar to those of D&D, differ from them in a number of respects. For example, there are still the usual six ability score, but they range in score 0–10 rather than 3–18. Further, the use of some of the abilities differs from their usual D&D association, such as Wisdom being used to modify ranged attacks and Constitution playing a role in encumbrance.

Combined with the lack of character classes, Knave thus occupies an odd middle ground for longtime D&D players between the familiar and the unfamiliar. Fortunately, the rules are so uncomplicated that I don't imagine any of the game's deviations from "standard" old school conventions should prove an impediment to a veteran's ability to pick them up. Meanwhile, a complete neophyte, who knows little or nothing about D&D, would probably find them fairly intuitive, which seems to have been the goal. In the aforementioned designer's commentary – one of my favorite sections of the book – Milton regularly uses words like "straightforward," "quick," and "easy" to explain the thought process behind Knave's rules. 

This philosophy suffuses the game, where everything associated with dungeon delving and wilderness travel – the core activities of old school Dungeons & Dragons – is pared down to quick, reasonably easy to use and understand procedures, with lots of room for individual expansion and experimentation. Combat, for instance, includes the possibility of initiating "maneuvers," like disarming or stunning, that is self-admittedly inspired by the "mighty deeds of arms" from Dungeon Crawl Classics, but without the same mechanical complexity. Magic, whether in the form of spells or relics, is similarly open-ended, with plenty of scope for creativity in their execution. This approach holds for most of the activities associated with classic play, like leveling up, encounters, and even equipment.

This open-ended toolkit approach might be off-putting to some, especially those looking for a more "full bodied" fantasy roleplaying game – but that's not what Knave is or was intended to be. Certainly, you could play Knave "straight" and have a satisfying experience with it. However, it's pretty clear from the way the game is written and presented that Milton expects that the rules of Knave will mutate and change with regular play, as each group adds to and subtracts from what he has put on offer in the rulebook. "Altering rules and writing your own is a time-honored part of the hobby," as he explains in Knave's introduction.

An important key to understanding Knave, I think, is that, in addition to its simple, concise mechanics, the rulebook also contains numerous random tables throughout its pages, all of them with 100 results. These tables cover careers to wizard names to disasters and more. Like everything else in Knave, they're laconic and intended to serve as jumping off points for one's imagination rather than the final word. More than that, they're clearly intended to be used in play, when the player or referee needs to come up something quickly. As a big fan of random tables and the effect they can have on play, I applaud the inclusion of these tables, as I know firsthand just how useful they can be. 

In the end, Knave is a pleasant surprise. Reading it made me think more seriously about the relationship between the complexities of rules and play, as well as my own preferences with regard to each of them. While I'm not completely sold on some of Knave's mechanical deviations from classic play, like the lack of classes, I nevertheless appreciate the way Milton's own choices made me ponder what I like and why, which I think will strengthen my own design work in the future. I also appreciate that, while Knave made think about such matters, its primary purpose is not philosophy but rather presenting "a framework that makes playing old-school RPGs straightforward, intuitive, easy to prep, and easy to run" – a laudable goal at which I believe it succeeded.

Retrospective: The Official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Coloring Album

Over the years, I've made occasional posts in which I've shared an image from The Official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Coloring Album, but I've never written a full Retrospective post about this curious – and amazing – product. Today, I intend to correct that oversight.

Released in 1979 just a few months prior to the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III, the Coloring Album is a remarkable relic of the time just before Dungeons & Dragons ascended to the heights of name recognition that it's continued to enjoy ever since. Consequently, this 32-page, oversized book is something of a rarity nowadays. I knew nothing of its existence until I started writing this blog, despite the fact that it appeared shortly before I began playing D&D. I've likewise never seen a physical copy of thing, though one can easily find electronic versions online with only a little effort.

One might well imagine that, aside from the simple oddity of an AD&D coloring book, there's not much to say about this product, but that would be mistaken. Let's start with the obvious – the illustrations. In addition to the beholder battle I included earlier this week, there's this one, featuring a bulette:

And this one in which the adventurers discover a vault filled with treasure:

These only scratch the surface of the universally intricate and evocative art found throughout the Coloring Album. I may share some additional pages from the book in subsequent posts, because they're very much worthy of further comment. 

Equally of note is the artist responsible for all these illustrations: Greg Irons. Irons, who died in 1984 at the age of only 37, was well known in the underground comics scene of the 1970s. Prior to that, he worked as a painter of animation cels for the 1968 Beatles movie, Yellow Submarine. He'd also work in the burgeoning field of original poster art and tattooing. In short, Irons was deeply connected to the artistic counterculture of the period – a counterculture that was at the forefront of promoting fantasy images and themes from The Lord of the Rings to metal and prog rock albums to airbrushed "wizard vans."

The involvement of Irons shouldn't really be a surprise, given that the Coloring Album was published by Troubador Press of San Francisco. Though most of Troubador's titles were activity or coloring books, their audience wasn't just children. They frequently highlighted weird and offbeat interests, especially science fiction, fantasy, and the occult, which attracted many adults to them as well. Troubador treated these subjects seriously. Just as importantly, the company hired some of the best outsider artists to illustrate them with strange, compelling, and often psychedelic artwork that stood out from other similar books of the same time. The Official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Coloring Album was, therefore, very much a product of the same counterculture that made the 1970s such a chaotic cauldron of creativity. 

The Album is also notable for being more than just a coloring book: it's also a game, albeit a very primitive one. The book presents itself as illustrating the various rooms and encounters found within "the depths of the vile dungeon" that holds a mystic talisman to be used "against the hordes of Evil threatening to overwhelm the Kingdom of Good." Included within is a map of the dungeon with simple rules using two six-sided dice to adjudicate battles, as the reader tries to guide his party of adventurers through the dungeon. The scenario and its accompanying text were apparently designed by Gary Gygax himself (who held copyright over the text). 

Though not one of Gygax's better adventure scenarios, the text accompanying the illustrations is surprisingly good, filled with lots of details and allusions to elements of D&D, as well as some from his World of Greyhawk setting. References are made to the Lake of Unknown Depths, the Green Dragon Inn, and St. Cuthbert, among a couple of others. It's quite fascinating to look at it now with an eye toward finding things you might have overlooked when you first saw it.

The Official Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Coloring Album is one of those early gaming products that might well qualify as a genuine "treasure." It's certainly one I wish were still readily available, because I think it's not only a fun book in its own right, but also an amazing reminder that D&D and, by extension, all roleplaying games grew up with and were influenced by the underground art scene of the '60s and '70s. It's a reminder of what D&D was like – and perhaps could have become – had it not eventually been seized by a corporatized desire to become a safe consumer product for the masses. 

REVIEW: The Lair of the Brain Eaters

The first few years of the Old School Renaissance were marked by a renewed appreciation not just of early roleplaying games but also of the pulp fantasy stories that inspired them. This was the time when Appendix N of Gary Gygax's AD&D Dungeon Masters Guide became a frequent topic of discussion on blogs and forums, much to the satisfaction of those of us who felt a strong injection of sword-and-sorcery was the perfect antidote to what we felt was an increasingly video-gamified hobby (remember: this coincided with the release of D&D Fourth Edition) that had lost sight of its literary roots.

This is the backdrop against which many of the earliest D&D retro-clones – emulations of earlier editions – appeared, including Lamentations of the Flame Princess. Calling itself a "weird fantasy role-playing game," LotFP took seriously the goal of bringing more pulp fantasy-inspired content into fantasy gaming, especially in its adventures, which quickly gained a reputation for being, by turns, imaginative, grotesque, challenging, deadly, and prurient – among many other extravagant adjectives. 

However, as LotFP's creator, James Raggi, found his strange Muse, its adventures moved away from generic pulp fantasy scenarios of the sort one might have found in Weird Tales during the Golden Age of the pulps and toward a weirder, even more brutal version of Earth's 17th century. This new focus on historical fantasy helped LotFP distinguish itself from its fellow retro-clones, but it also, I think, narrowed its appeal somewhat, since most fantasy gamers, old school or otherwise, are looking for adventures they can easily drop into campaign settings other than Earth during the 1600s.

While I am a big fan of LotFP's pivot to historical fantasy, I miss the ahistorical strangeness of stuff like Death Frost Doom, Hammers of the God, or The Monolith from Beyond Space and Time. Consequently, when I learned about D.M. Ritzlin's The Lair of the Brain Eaters, I was intrigued. Unlike most recent LotFP releases, this adventure didn't seem to be set in the 17th century. Rather, it seemed more like something from Robert E. Howard's Hyborian Age or perhaps Clark Ashton Smith's Hyperborea – a lurid, necromantic pulp fantasy scenario of the kind we haven't seen for LotFP in a while.

That should come as no surprise. Ritzlin is the proprietor of DMR Books, a small press dedicated "fantasy, horror, and adventure fiction in the traditions Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and other classic writers of the pulp era." Indeed, The Lair of the Brain Eaters shares its title with a short story Ritzlin wrote for the collection, Necromancy in Nilztiria. According to the author, some of the story's details have been changed (and "a great many more have been added"), so this adventure is less directly adapted and more inspired by its source. Even so, it's quite unusual by the standards of contemporary Lamentations of the Flame Princess.

The adventure concerns a cult dedicated to the consumption of human brains. Called the Yoinog – supposedly an ancient term meaning "knowledge seekers" – the cult serves the necromancer Obb Nyreb, furnishing him with a fresh supply of corpses as he attempts to unravel the mysteries of Veshakul-a, the goddess of death. Nyreb and the Yoinog have established themselves in a network of caves beneath a graveyard of the city of Desazu. Unfortunately, in their zeal for graverobbing, the cult has drawn attention to their master's activities, thereby providing an opening for the player characters to involve themselves in the adventure.

The Lair of the Brain Eaters is short and to the point. The cult's cave network consists of only twenty keyed areas, with Nyreb's chambers occupying an additional nine. Most of them are described briefly, with little in the way of extraneous detail. Do not, however, mistake its comparatively spartan descriptions for a sparseness of ideas – quite the contrary. The florid prose of many adventures is often chalked up to the designer's desire to be a writer of fiction. Here, the opposite is the case: the text's concision signals that its designer is already a skilled fictioneer and understands well that less can be more.

For example, this is part of the description of a "bottomless pit": "This pit is not really bottomless, but it amused Obb Nyreb to tell the Yoinog it was, and they never doubt him." Elsewhere, a kitchen is described thusly: "Grimy pots, pans, and plates litter the floor. A cauldron large enough to contain a man sits in the center of the room, while smaller ones dangle from the ceiling." Speaking as someone whose personal style tends toward the aureate, I admire Ritzlin's ability to convey description, vital information, and mood through so few words. This approach also makes the descriptions easy to use at a glance, which is very helpful in play.

Designed for character levels 1–3, The Lair of the Brain Eaters is challenging. There are a lot of Yoinog within the caves, as well as other creatures, such as the apelike Skullfaces and mutant rats (some of which breathe fire – yes, it's a bit silly, but so what?). Fortunately, the caves contain lots of opportunities for the characters to act stealthily or otherwise use the environment to their advantage. In addition, there's a captive within who, if freed, can aid the characters in navigating the place. These factors, combined with some clever tricks and obstacles, creates a memorable locale for both exploration and combat. 

The Lair of the Brain Eaters is an inventive, evocative, and unpretentious "meat and potatoes" adventure that I'd like to see more of – from Lamentations of the Flame Princess or any other publisher. I think it'd be an especially great fit for anyone playing North Wind's Hyperborea RPG, but it'd work just as well with any other fantasy game that draws inspiration from the pulps. I really enjoyed this one.

Mesmerized by Sirens

Though I've now been blogging for almost as long (if not as prolifically) as I had prior to my break, I still can't help but think of the period between 2008 and 2012 or thereabouts as something of a Golden Age for the Old School Renaissance. While the seeds of what would become the OSR were planted on forums like Dragonsfoot and ODD74, its true flowering occurred on blogs. By the time I started Grognardia in March 2008, there were already many blogs devoted to old school RPGs, particularly Dungeons & Dragons. Over the course of the next couple years, their numbers were swelled by many, many more, leading to a remarkable intellectual ecosystem where the history of our hobby was remembered, celebrated, and debated with incredible vibrancy. It truly was an incredible time and I often find myself nostalgic for those days.

An important aspect of those days was how often bloggers would refer their readers to posts on other blogs, whether to comment upon or even criticize them. Despite the claims by some that the OSR was an "echo chamber," anyone who was deeply immersed in the scene at the time can easily refute that. Far from being a hivemind, the early Old School Renaissance was a fractious, cantankerous place, filled with big ideas and big personalities, not all of whom saw eye to eye on every issue. Back then, it seemed as if there were a new "controversy" every week and, while that could be vexing, these squabbles regularly provided an opportunity to hash out questions of wider interest. 

I used to read lots of other blogs, because I felt it was important that I keep abreast of what others were writing. Sometimes, that was a lot of work and I won't deny that the first iteration of this blog eventually wore me out to the point of disaster. Consequently, when I returned to blogging in 2020, I vowed I wouldn't exhaust myself in the way I had previously. I'd write less often and only when I felt I had something of interest to say. Grognardia was an avocation, not an occupation and I should treat it as such. For the most part, that's worked out well enough, but there's still a part of me who misses the roiling, chaotic ferment of the old days. They burned me out, yes, but they also produced a lot of great stuff.

That's why I was cheered to discover that a blog I've long enjoyed, Mesmerized by Sirens, has a new post for the first time in three years. Subtitled "the Sanctuary of Old Fantasy Role Playing Games," Mesmerized by Sirens is a great resource for information about not merely old RPGs but obscure ones – games like Bifrost, Melanda, Phantasy Conclave, Castle Perilous, and more. If you're at all interested in the dark corners of the hobby's history, I recommend you take a look. I hope that, if enough people do so, it might encourage its author to keep writing.

Do you have any defunct blogs you'd like to see return to life?

Shrine of the Sword

A regular reader asked for assistance in finding more information about an obscure, self-published fantasy adventure scenario entitled Shrine of the Sword, written by Paul Mercer and Kevin Conklin, with illustrations by the latter. Here's its cover:

Not much is known about the adventure, not even its date of publication. It's so obscure that there's not even an entry on RPGGeek for it, though there is a very limited one at, of all place, PuzzleGeek. The interior of the adventure is similarly primitive:

Aside from the fact that it's for "higher level characters," Shrine of the Sword is interesting, because it includes eight illustrations intended to be shown to players as an aid to visualizing items and locations within the scenario, much like the illustration booklets included with Tomb of Horrors and Expedition to the Barrier Peaks. Here's an example of one of them:

It's a long shot that anyone reading this post knows anything more about it, but I know quite a few of you have been in the hobby for far longer than I and have good memories for historical curiosities like this, so I thought it worth a try. Please share your wisdom in the comments. Thanks!

Yet More Thoughts about Skills

Last month, I presented a draft of a proposed new character class for inclusion in Secrets of sha-Arthan, the tomb robber. A common question about the class, both in the comments and in separate emails, concerned my inclusion of skills among the tomb robber's abilities. Long-time readers will no doubt remember that, in the early days of this blog, I was a fairly strong opponent of the inclusion of a skill system into class-based RPGs like Dungeons & Dragons. I was likewise an opponent of the thief class introduced in Greyhawk, viewing it as a self-justifying class for which there is no real need.

In the early days of the Old School Renaissance, such positions were pretty common, maybe even normative. This was, after all, the beginning of the re-evaluation of the virtues of Original D&D (1974), when a lot of us who'd either never played OD&D (raises hand) or who had long ago abandoned it in favor of later elaborations upon it, embraced it with zeal. Remember, too, that the OSR grew up amid the wreckage of Third Edition, whose mechanical excesses served as negative examples of what could happen when D&D's design "strays" too far from the foundations laid down by Arneson and Gygax in 1974. And one of 3e innovations was the addition of a skill system separate from class abilities.

Looking back on it now, I can see that my desire to avoid what I perceived as the flaws of Third Edition often led me to rhetorical intemperance. That's certainly the case with regards to skills, though, in my defense, I started to moderate my stance relatively early. That moderation was the result of play, particularly in my Dwimmermount megadungeon campaign, where I came to recognize just why the thief class and skill systems had organically evolved. Even so, I retained a certain wariness about both, since I continued to feel, as I still do, that character skills should never become a crutch for lazy play, which is to say, interacting with the game world solely through the game mechanic of skill rolls. 

That said, what ultimately changed my opinion for good was my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign (take a drink). EPT, as many of you probably know, includes a skill system – the first, I believe, to appear in any roleplaying game. The skill system is certainly primitive by comparison to those in later RPGs, like Traveller or RuneQuest, of course. Indeed, the skill mechanic is vague and not very well integrated into EPT's overall play, but it's there. Consequently, when refereeing House of Worms, I made regular use of it.

What I discovered is that none of my earlier, hyperbolic concerns proved true at all. Skills never dominated play, nor did they encourage lazy play. The players rarely initiated skill rolls as a means to avoid having to think in-character or grapple with a problem presented to them. Instead, they might ask, "Does my character's Scholar skill give him any idea about the architectural style of this ruin?" or "Might my Jeweler-Goldsmith skill give me some idea of the value of this gemstone?" Sometimes, I'll call for an actual percentile roll to determine whether the skill grants the character the requested knowledge or not, but many times I'll simply make a judgment as to whether or not the skill is sufficiently expansive to grant it. Ultimately, the decision of how to adjudicate skills rested with me, the referee.

For me, that's the key. I dislike skill systems that demand a referee do something in response to a player-initiated successful roll. I much prefer those where skill use is a negotiation between player and referee and the final decision of whether a skill is relevant – or whether a roll is even needed – lies with the referee. Maybe that's common sense, but it's not the way I've often seen skill rolls used. Instead, they're more likely to be something a player employs to ensure a referee does (or does not) do a given thing within the context of the game. "I made a successful Stealth roll, so my character can sneak across the room without being seen by the guards" or "I got a success on my Persuasion roll and convince him not to report this to his superiors."

Skills – or perhaps competencies might be a better term – can be a good way for players and referees to cooperate in interacting with the setting and events within it. That's how I've been handling skills in House of Worms and I've taken that experience into Secrets of sha-Arthan as well – or at least I hope to do so.