Backer Rewards for the Dwimmermount Kickstarter

As some of you are likely aware, today is the day when the Dwimmermount Kickstarter launches. The official start isn't until later this afternoon (I'll make an announcement here when it goes live), but I wanted to draw people's attention to this post over at the Autarch blog, in which Tavis Allison -- who's been a hero in pulling this whole thing together -- reveals the backer rewards for the Kickstarter, some of which I'm very excited about and I hope others will be too.

If you're at all interested in this, go on over to the Autarch blog and take a look. Feel free to comment here or there, if you have any questions or thoughts about the rewards. Tavis or I will do our best to answer them.

Thanks!

REVIEW: The Whisperer in Darkness

Even with all of its divergences from its source text -- some forgivable, some not -- The Whisperer in Darkness is still one of the best movies directly based on an H.P. Lovecraft story ever made. Its competition in this area is both small and not especially praiseworthy, but I mean this most sincerely as a compliment. I can't count how often I've heard it claimed, generally by people only passingly familiar with his work, that Lovecraft is "unfilmable." Despite that, the good folks at the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society have succeeded not once but twice in adapting a Lovecraft story to film. Of the two adaptations, I think the 2005 silent film version of The Call of Cthulhu is the greater success, both in terms of fidelity to its literary source and in finding a medium almost perfectly suited to it, but The Whisperer in Darkness is nevertheless noteworthy, if only as a reminder that, in the 21st century, dedicated fans now have the tools to do what Hollywood has either forgotten or, more likely, no longer cares to do: understand classic literature as more than just an IP mine for the creation of its next soulless blockbuster.

The Whisperer in Darkness is a 104-minute long adaptation of Lovecraft's 1931 short story of the same name. The story concerns the investigations of a Miskatonic University professor named Albert Wilmarth into strange events occurring in backwoods Vermont. These events come to Wilmarth's attention in part because of letters he receives from a man living in Vermont, Henry Akeley. Akeley explains that the remote hills of Vermont are home to an extraterrestrial race with sinister intentions and that it is they who are behind the recent oddities. Wilmarth, a skeptic, dismisses Akeley's claims out of hand at first, only to second guess himself after more letters arrive from Akeley, some of them providing proof, such as a phonograph recording of the aliens speaking. Later, Akeley seems to change his mind, claiming that his initial fears had been unjustified. He urges Wilmarth to visit him and to bring with him all their correspondence, especially the phonograph recording he sent to him. Intrigued by the sudden change, Wilmarth heads to Vermont and there, bit by bit, learns the truth.

Like many Lovecraft stories, "The Whisperer in Darkness" has two "problems." The first is that much of its "action" takes place in the form of letters between Wilmarth and Akeley. The movie deals with this by introducing several new characters, as well as beefing up the role of Akeley's son, George (who's only mentioned offhandedly in the short story), so as to make them rather than letters the conduits through which much of the exposition is conveyed. It's a perfectly reasonable approach and one that (largely) didn't bother me, because it didn't affect the flow of the story itself. Indeed, this approach facilitated the story. The second issue with many Lovecraft stories is that they quite often present only the first two acts of what would seem to be a three-act drama. Lovecraft's stories frequently end just as their protagonists make some startling, mind-blowing discovery, leaving what happens next entirely to the reader. The filmmakers decided that this would be unsatisfying in translation to cinema and so invented a third act of their own.

It's this third act where I think The Whisperer in Darkness falls down and not merely because it introduces original material. With the third act, the entire tone of the film shifts. Whereas the first hour or so is moody and tense, as Wilmarth's skepticism slowly erodes in the face of evidence even he cannot deny, the last three-quarters of an hour feel much more like an adventure film -- or a Call of Cthulhu adventure. That's perhaps not surprising as the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society has its origins in a Colorado gaming group (and several new characters are named for old CoC investigators from their campaigns), but, even so, the shift is a obvious and jarring. It's as if The Whisperer in Darkness is two different movies stitched together rather than a single, seamless whole.

Now, the argument could be made -- and, indeed, should be made -- that, just as their previous The Call of Cthulhu mimicked the conventions of silent movies in adapting its source material, so too does The Whisperer in Darkness mimic the conventions of horror movies from the era in which Lovecraft wrote his tale. Remember that, in 1931, the year the short story was published in the pages of Weird Tales, Universal Studios released both Dracula and Frankenstein. Viewed in that context, I think The Whisperer in Darkness holds up quite well, though I can't deny that this nevertheless irks me slightly. The first hour of the movie is so good and so true to the content and spirit of Lovecraft that the last 45 minutes seem that much worse in comparison. They're not worse, but they are different and not, in my opinion, particularly Lovecraftian.

All that said, The Whisperer in Darkness is an amazing piece of work, all the moreso because it was done on a limited budget by talented amateurs and semi-professionals. The decision to film in the style of a 1930s black and white film is a brilliant one, not only grounding the film in the era of its inspiration but also solving certain technical problems that might have been intractable had its creators opted for a more modern look. The acting is generally very good, particularly the two leads, Matt Foyer (Wilmarth) and Barry Lynch (Akeley), both of whose performances make what could otherwise have been a shlocky B-movie work. The cinematography is also quite good and gives one a real sense of place, something that I think is vital to any Lovecraft adaptation that strives to be true to its source material. My only real technical complaint about the movie is its use of computer graphics to depict the Outer Ones/Fungi from Yuggoth. Not only is such technology out of place in what is otherwise a film striving for 1930s authenticity but I didn't find the aliens all that convincing in any case. I think a lower-tech solution (which was used in some scenes) would have been better and that the decision to go for CGI was necessitated by the "need" for an original third act that upped the dramatic stakes beyond HPL's original.

In the end, I judge The Whisperer in Darkness a qualified success, where the filmmakers' reach exceeded their grasp. I fully understand why they made the changes they did and might well have been tempted to make them myself were I in their shoes, but the fact remains that the additions are noticeably weaker than the original material and that brings the whole movie down somewhat in my estimation. As I said at the start of this review, though, even with all the issues I take with it, The Whisperer in Darkness is an amazing piece of work and one of the best adaptations of an H.P. Lovecraft story to film ever made. I'm frankly astounded that it's as good as it is, though I shouldn't be, given the obvious love for and knowledge of Lovecraft that its producers have demonstrated time and again. I sincerely hope they'll one day make another adaptation -- The Shadow over Innsmouth would be my pick -- because goodness knows I'd like to see it.

Look What I Got

The other day I received the following package in the mail:

And this was the invoice it contained:

I hope I can be forgiven for being more than a little delighted that I get mail that could almost double as props for use in a Call of Cthulhu adventure. Some might argue that the appearance of the package and invoice have no bearing whatsoever on the quality of the movie with which they're associated, but I'd argue otherwise. The fact that the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society puts so much fannish love into even their billing invoices tells you everything you need to know about why its movies, like The Whisperer in Darkness (about which I'll talk more soon), kick the butt of anything "Lovecraftian" Hollywood has ever produced. If we only had a group of Howard fans as dedicated, we might finally get a Conan movie worth a damn ...

Retrospective: Authentic Thaumtaurgy

In yesterday's post on the article "Realistic Vital Statistics," reader Joe Nuttall rightly notes that "the desire for 'realism' ... didn't start in the Silver Age." I completely agree with his statement. The desire for greater "realism" is a tendency as old as the hobby itself. Indeed, I'd suggest it predates it and is in fact a strand of DNA retained from roleplaying's wargaming roots. What's interesting is that some of what we call "realism" isn't actually about realism at all; rather, it's about "properly" translating something into game mechanical form. This could be falling damage or heights and weights or it could be, as it so often was in the Silver Age, the "laws" of drama. But back in the Golden Age, there was a quite (in)famous example of attempting to promote "realism" so understood when dealing with magic.

First published in 1978 (and revised and expanded two decades later), Authentic Thaumaturgy was written by Isaac Bonewits and published by Chaosium with the provocative subtitle of "a professional occulist on improving the realism of magic systems used in fantasy simulation games." Bonewits is usually touted as "the only person ever to earn a degree in Magic from the University of California," a statement that's always baffled me. In the late '60s and throughout the 1970s, he was an important and influential figure in various occult organizations, including the Reformed Druids of North America, where he acted as a priest, and the Church of Satan, though his association with the latter was short-lived due to differences of opinion with its founder, Anton LaVey. I mention all of this background because it's now commonplace to mock the "Satanic panic" of the 1980s as being wholly without foundation, especially when it came to our hobby. But the fact is that, from the first, fantasy roleplaying did attract people with genuine interest in the occult, many of whom infused their gaming with ideas derived from their esoteric beliefs. Authentic Thaumaturgy is one of the more famous examples of this.

 I didn't see Authentic Thaumaturgy back in the day, but I knew of its existence. It was one of those books, like Arduin, that older gamers of my acquaintance spoke about in hushed tones. I got the sense back then that Authentic Thaumaturgy was viewed as a book of "real" magic and thus to be avoided. But, like so many such things, the reality was quite different. When I finally got a chance to see a copy, I have to admit that I was disappointed by what a slight and banal thing it was. This was no black grimoire but a rather amateurishly put together bit of theorizing that took itself very seriously, as so many of us are wont to do. I don't mean that as a criticism of Authentic Thaumaturgy, which for all its faults, is an intriguing book. I mention it mostly to put the book's reputation and reality into context, at least as I experienced it in the early '80s.

Though published by Chaosium, Authentic Thaumaturgy was not written with RuneQuest or any flavor of Basic Roleplaying in mind. Indeed, the book isn't really written with any RPG in mind. Instead, Bonewits devotes himself to providing theories of magic for use in gaming, whatever game you happen to be playing. His goal is not specifically to "convert" anyone to his own beliefs but rather to show how one can take a "realistic" approach to magic and use it as a basis for presenting magic in a roleplaying game. To do this, Bonewits presents various "laws" of magic, along with discussions of the essence and limitations of magic, all of its written in a rather dry, almost academic tone. Bonewits himself clearly believed in much of what he was presenting in Authentic Thaumaturgy but he wrote like a professor rather than an evangelist.

Unfortunately, it's this dryness that, in my opinion, limits the book's utility as a gaming supplement. Don't get me wrong: it's fascinating reading, both as a historical document and as an exploration of a contentious topic, but most of it is not immediately useful in bringing magical "realism" to one's games, or at least it didn't seem so to me. And, like all types of realism, I'll admit that I don't see the point. Bonewits, for example, takes Gary Gygax to task for his presentation of magic in D&D and, while his points undoubtedly have validity from a certain perspective, they also miss the point that, while D&D magic may not be "realistic," especially to an occultist, it is eminently playable. Like the much derided abstractions of D&D's combat system, D&D's magic system has survived because it works, despite the efforts of generations of game designers who think otherwise. 

The Articles of Dragon: "Realistic Vital Statistics"

I am nothing if not tedious and repetitive, so, when turning to issue #91 of Dragon (November 1984), it was pretty much a given that I'd talking about the article "Realistic Vital Statistics" by Stephen Inniss. The article is a near-perfect exemplar of the Silver Age of D&D, with its concern for providing referees with the tools needed to inject "realism" into their adventures and campaigns. In this case, the author's concern is for the fact that, according to their descriptions in the Monster Manual and Players Handbook, dwarves are implausibly heavy, standing only 4 feet tall and yet weighing 150 pounds (on average). According to Mr Inniss, if one extrapolated this weight for a 6-foot tall human male, he'd weigh over 500 pounds! This, he says, violates a fundamental rule of physics -- the square-cube law, which states that "the weight (or volume) of an object is proportional to the product of its linear dimensions (height, length, and width)." Using a realistic model, a 4-foot dwarf should weigh only about a third the weight listed in the AD&D books.

The article thus provides a series of tables for generating more plausible vital statistics to replace those in the Dungeon Masters Guide. For what it is, the system is pretty easy to use: the tables are clear and the variables aren't difficult to keep track of. But, ultimately, I find myself wondering why anyone would care about such a system. Mr Inniss notes that giants in D&D show no signs of appropriate adaptation to their height and (presumed) weight, meaning they're not very plausible as typically presented. Having said that, he then dismisses the concern by saying

Fortunately, their world is a magical one. They are probably supported by some permanent variant of the levitate spell, with bone-strengthening magic thrown in for good measure. Interestingly, the larger giants (storm and cloud giants), like the equally huge titans, have true levitation powers perhaps a natural extension of the talents of their lesser brethren.

It's, in my opinion, a perfectly valid solution to this "problem" of the height and weight of giants, but, if one can accept this when dealing with giants, why is the weight of dwarves an issue? Once you admit that the world is magical and therefore exempt from inconvenient physical laws that would get in the way of fantasy, where does on draw the line? Mr Inniss anticipated this line of thought and attempted to counter it.

Since this is after all a fantasy game, it might be argued that it doesn't matter how much dwarves are defined as weighing. However, it is just such realistic-looking details as a character's height and weight that make for a more willing suspension of disbelief during a game session. Otherwise, why bother with such statistics in the first place? Plausibility, or "realism" as it is sometimes called, is definitely a factor in the enjoyment of even a fantasy game; the more so where the game makes a relatively close approach to reality.

I'm far from convinced by Mr Inniss's rejoinder, but, leaving that aside, when was the last time that a character's precise weight mattered in a game? I can't recall its ever mattering in any games that I've run. Height is a little more useful, though, even there, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I ever allowed or disallowed a character action based on height. For me, knowing that a dwarf weighs 152 or merely 52 pounds is about as vital as knowing whether he has brown hair or red.

But that's just me.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Sweet Silver Blues

Glen Cook's name has appeared in this feature once before, in discussing his 1984 novel, The Black Company, which Gary Gygax cited as an example of a book that, in his opinion, mapped well onto his vision of Dungeons & Dragons. Though The Black Company proved a success and spawned many sequels, it's not Cook's only fantasy series. In 1987, he kicked off a different set of novels with Sweet Silver Blues. "Different" may be an understatement, since, except for the fact that Sweet Silver Blues and its sequels also use first person narration, they don't have a lot in common with the tales of the Black Company. In terms of both style and content, Sweet Silver Blues almost feels as if it were written by another author, though some of that might be because Cook is self-consciously imitating the tone and diction of a genre other than mainstream fantasy. Sweet Silver Blues begins thusly:

Bam! Bam! Bam!

It sounded like someone was knocking with a sledgehammer. I rolled over and cracked a bloodshot eye. I couldn’t see a figure through the window, but that wasn’t surprising. I could barely make out the lettering on the grimy glass:

Garrett
Investigator
Confidential Agent

I had blown my wad buying the glass and wound up being my own painter.

The window was as dirty as last week’s dishwater, but not filthy enough to block out the piercing morning light. The damned sun wasn’t up yet! And I’d been out till the second watch barhopping while I followed a guy who might lead me to a guy who might know where I could find a guy. All this led to was a pounding headache.

“Go away!” I growled. “Not available.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Go to hell away!” I yelled. It left my head feeling like an egg that had just bounced off the edge of a frying pan. I wondered if I ought to feel the back to see if the yolk was leaking, but it seemed like too much work. I’d just go ahead and die.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

I have a little trouble with my temper, especially when I have a hangover. I was halfway to the door with two feet of lead-weighted truncheon before sense penetrated the scrambled yolk.

When they are that insistent, it’s somebody from up the hill with a summons to do work too sticky to lay on their own boys. Or it’s somebody from down the hill with the word that you’re stepping on the wrong toes.

In the latter case the truncheon might be useful.

I yanked the door open.

For a moment I didn’t see the woman. She barely came up to my chest. I eyeballed the three guys behind her. They were lugging enough steel to outfit their own army, but I wouldn’t have been shy about wading in. Two of them were about fifteen years old and the other was about a hundred and five.

“We’re invaded by dwarfs,” I moaned. None of them was taller than the woman.

As you can see, Sweet Silver Blues has as much in common with hard-boiled detective fiction as it does with fantasy, so much so that its protagonist, Garrett (he has no other name) is in fact a private investigator after the fashion of Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. The world that Garrett inhabits is still (largely) recognizable to fans of fantasy -- there are dwarfs and centaurs and and vampires -- but their presentation is nothing like Tolkien or Howard or any of their imitators. Instead, Garrett's world is basically 1930s but with magic taking the place of technology and fantasy beings and nations in place of more familiar ones. Like the real 1930s, it's also a world that's still recovering from a disastrous war in its recent past, one whose outcome still has repercussions for the present day.

One of those repercussions hits Garrett personally. The dwarfs who show up on his doorstep want to hire him to investigate the death of one of their kinsmen, Denny Tate. Denny, it turns out, served in the war alongside Garrett, so discovering the real cause of his death isn't just another job for the private eye. I say "real cause," because, though Denny supposedly died an accidental death, his family thinks otherwise -- especially once they discover the terms of his will. Denny, who was a shoemaker by trade, seemed to have a secret fortune in gold and silver and, rather than leave it to his family, as one might expect, he left it all to a woman none of the dwarfs had ever heard of and whom they presumed to have been an old flame. Of course, Garrett's heard of this woman, because she'd once been his girlfriend as well, which only makes the investigator even more suspicious about this case.

Like The Black Company, I knew of the existence of Sweet Silver Blues for years before I actually read it. For some reason, I just never came across a copy and so I missed out on the chance to enjoy what is a fun little tale cleverly told. As I said above, it's a lot more lighthearted than The Black Company, though it's still very cynical and world-weary at times, as befits its inspirations. I'm not completely convinced that its transposition of hard-boiled literary tropes to a fantasy setting works, though I'm also not sure that I care. Cook is a good writer, with a knack for creating interesting and compelling characters. The central story of Sweet Silver Blues is perhaps a little clichéd, particularly if you're familiar with the sources he'd drawing upon, but I don't think that necessarily weakens the novel or one's pleasure in reading it. This is one of those lean-back-and-enjoy-the-ride books and makes a nice change of pace from the pretension and self-seriousness that characterizes too much of modern fantasy.

Open Friday: 'Zines

One of the many, many positive results of the old school renaissance over the last few years has been the rediscovery -- and re-invigoration -- of old forms, whether those forms be megadungeons, hexcrawls, or pulp fantasy in general. Another form I've noticed undergoing a revival is the fanzine, with Christian's Loviatar being the best example. By the time I got into the hobby in late 1979, 'zines were hardly dead, but they weren't something that the younger generation of kids like me really got into. It wasn't until the late '80s that I ever read or subscribed to a gaming fanzine and the ones I did were all dedicated to Traveller (which was my obsession between 1987 and 1992, during which I largely abandoned D&D).

I really loved those Traveller 'zines, which I still have to this day. They weren't "professional," either in content or presentation, but they were filled with enthusiasm and imagination and they encouraged me to pick up a pen and start writing my own stuff. Some might argue that blogs are the new 'zines and there's some truth to that assertion. On the other hand, 'zines just feel different to me in some indescribable way, though perhaps Christian said it best when he wrote:

While blogs are a wonderful tool for connecting with people who share similar interests, there's an anonymity to the process. It's easy to insult someone from the safety of an avatar with a codename. It's harder to actually sit down, write a letter and drop your anger in the mailbox. Zines are a much more personal and direct way to communicate. You might read and forget a blog post. You're more likely to save a favorite zine for years.

I think he's absolutely right here, which is why I'm glad that he's keeping the 'zine alive and well in 2012 (and I understand Tim is thinking of trying his hand at the form, too -- good show!).

So, for today's Open Friday, feel free to share your thoughts about and experiences with gaming fanzines. I'm curious to hear how many of you have ever read, subscribed to, or written them.

REVIEW: Barrowmaze

Though there's no universally accepted definition of "megadungeon," I tend to use it to mean a dungeon large enough to be the primary (or sole) focus of a D&D campaign for years. By that definition, I'm not sure that Greg Gillespie's Barrowmaze qualifies as a "true" megadungeon, but I don't really care. The fact is that the titular Barrowmaze is huge -- nearly 200 rooms, many of which have sub-areas -- and, more importantly, engaging. While it probably couldn't serve as the focus of a campaign for years, it could certainly do so for months and it contains enough "spin-off" material that it wouldn't be difficult to keep the PCs busy for even longer, should the referee desire it.

Barrowmaze is an 84-page PDF describing a vast warren of underground tombs controlled by several Chaotic cults. Written for Labyrinth Lord but easily adaptable to any old school class-and-level fantasy RPG, Barrowmaze is simply laid out using a two-column format, punctuated by black and white artwork, much by the excellent Stefan Poag. Poag's illustrations are wonderfully evocative of the weird combination of elements that characterize old school play -- equal parts mystery, fear, and black humor, all viewed through a phantasmagoric haze. I can't deny that a large part of my positive feeling toward Barrowmaze was generated by Poag's contributions. That said, the artwork throughout the product is very good, with artists Toren Atkinson, Zhu Bajie, Trevor Hammond, John Larrey, and Jason Sholtis all turning in some terrific pieces.

Barrowmaze has a number of virtues that, I think, set it apart from other dungeons, including some other recently published ones. First, Gillespie's style is spare without being cramped. I know it's popular in old school circles nowadays to praise room entries that read "6 giant rats, 2 gems (25 gp each)," but, especially in a published product, I prefer a little more meat. Conversely, I have no interest in reading paragraphs upon paragraphs of room description, complete with detailed histories and personalities of the monsters and NPCs therein, so the middle road Gillespie took very much appeals to me. Second, the Barrowmaze has lots of empty rooms, unguarded treasures, and tricks and traps. It's, in my opinion, a perfect mix of the elements that make old school dungeon crawling not just possible but enjoyable. Third, Barrowmaze has a theme -- in this case, undead -- that helps to give the dungeon a feel. There are other monsters than just undead here, of course, but the undead, including many new varieties, are its primary antagonists and that goes a long way toward giving Barrowmaze the cohesion necessary to avoid being just a fantasy funhouse. Finally, the dungeon is sprawling. Rather than multiple levels stacked on top of each other, the Barrowmaze fans out in multiple directions on a single level, which not only further contributes to its unique feel but also sets it apart from most other large dungeons.

I'm hard pressed to find any real faults with Barrowmaze. Nearly everything about the product is well done, from the layout to the artwork to the content and cartography. Indeed, Barrowmaze is nearly a textbook example of how to make a compelling, well-presented dungeon module. More than that, it reaffirms my belief that, despite the standard complaints from veteran gamers, the dungeon remains not merely a viable but a powerful locale in which to set fantasy adventures. This hobby was born in the dungeon and, while it's probably good for its long-term health to seek fresh from time to time, there's still much to be gained by returning to its point of origin regularly. If I had to settle on a nit to pick, it'd be that there's currently no print option for the book, which is a shame, because I'd happily pay for a copy to put on my shelf beside Stonhell and the Anomalous Subsurface Environment, two other recent dungeons that made me sit up and take notice.

I suspect the primary knock against Barrowmaze will be that it's "just another dungeon," which is unfortunate, because I don't think that's true at all, for reasons I've stated above. Gillespie has done a wonderful job of synthesizing the wisdom of the Old Ways with more recent theorizing about the same to create something that distinguishes itself from other dungeon modules. And I say this as someone who's preparing to bring his own megadungeon to publication shortly.  Given that it's price is only $6.66, I nevertheless recommend that even the congenitally dungeon-averse pick it up, if only to see what a well-done dungeon crawl looks like. It's my hope, though, that Barrowmaze might change a few minds as well, reminding them why it was that so many of us spent untold hours in underground vaults when we first entered this hobby.

Presentation: 8 out of 10
Creativity: 7 out of 10
Utility: 7 out of 10

Buy This If: You're in the market for a new dungeon with which to kick off a campaign or just want a well-done dungeon to loot for ideas.
Don't Buy This If: You really, truly have no interest in dungeons and can't imagine ever using one in a campaign, whether in whole or in part.

Misspelling

Does anyone have a copy of a second edition AD&D Monstrous Manual (or Compendium) handy? I ask because I just noticed today, seemingly for the first time, that Greyhawk, the Monster Manual, Holmes, and Moldvay all perpetuate the misspelling "doppleganger" rather than the correct "doppelganger." I can tell, from looking at the online D20 SRD, that the misspelling had been corrected by the WotC era, but what I don't know is if that's the first time the monster's name has been spelled correctly or if it had been corrected prior to that point during 2e.

Retrospective: "Glozel est Authentique!"

From the perspective of 2012, it's hard to remember a time when Lovecraft -- or at least things tangentially related to Lovecraft -- weren't everywhere. Like nearly everything these days, Lovecraft and "the Mythos" are an industry, one whose pervasiveness has contributed in large part to the defanging of most of HPL's central ideas. I mean, it's hard to take seriously the notion of knowledge so unsettling that it can bring on insanity when you've got a plush Cthulhu doll wearing a Hawaiian shirt sitting next to you on a bookshelf. Once upon a time, this was not the case and, if I sound like an old man in bemoaning the violence pop culture has done to Grandpa Theobald's oeuvre, so be it.

For and for ill, I suspect that Chaosium's Call of Cthulhu has played a significant role in the popularizing of Lovecraft and the Mythos. Back in 1981, when the game was released, I don't think any of my immediate circle of gaming friends had heard of Lovecraft, let alone read any of his stuff and this wasn't unusual among the younger generation of roleplayers in those days. Even today, I'd hazard a guess that the vast majority of people who read this blog first encountered Lovecraft as a result of Call of Cthulhu rather than being drawn to CoC, because they were fans of HPL first. There's nothing wrong with this, of course, except that, for all my love of Call of Cthulhu, I do think it (necessarily) distorts Lovecraft and his ideas in its presentation of them, so much so that the default assumption is that CoC investigators are Indiana Jones-like globetrotting adventurers rather than sensitive, bookish polymaths for whom merely interacting with other human beings is adventure enough.

I mention this all because it might seem, in retrospect, like Call of Cthulhu always had tons of adventures and other materials to support it; that's not the case at all. Back in the first few years of the game's existence, Chaosium didn't produce a lot for it, which left a void filled by licensees, like Theatre of the Mind Enterprises (TOME). I know very little about TOME, so if anyone has any information about the company I'd be grateful. All I know is that, throughout 1983 and 1984, they produced about a half-dozen different adventure collections for use with Call of Cthulhu. These collections were heavily advertised, including in official Chaosium products as I recall, but I only ever saw one of them, "Glozel est Authentique!," published in 1984. If it's any indication of the quality of TOME's other CoC offerings, I am grateful I didn't acquire them.

"Glozel est Authentique!" is the title of the first of two scenarios included in this book. Written by Stephen Rawling, the adventure concerns a real world town in France, Glozel, which in 1924, became the center of an archeological controversy, when a young farmer discovered a hidden chamber in his field containing a wide variety of seemingly ancient artifacts. The artifacts consisted of pieces of glass and ceramic, human bones, and some clay tablets written in a strange language. The controversy centered on just how these artifacts were and their origins, leading to some outlandish hypotheses, as well as claims of fraud. As you can guess from its title, the first scenario makes the claim that the find is authentic and, of course, connected to the Mythos -- except in a very dull way.

The second scenario, "Secrets of the Kremlin," was written by E.S. Erkes, whose name I recognize from several old issues of Different Worlds magazine. "Secrets of the Kremlin" isn't directly connected to the previous scenario and concerns, as you might expect, a Mythos connection to both the Russian past and present. And by "present," I mean Josef Stalin, who, according to this adventure, possessed a copy of the Necronomicon, as well as a Dark Young of Shub-Niggurath, which he imprisoned within the Kremlin. In many ways, "Secrets of the Kremlin" is the antithesis of its companion. Where "Glozel est Authentique!" is boring, even pedestrian in its revelations, "Secrets of the Kremlin" is laughable, a caricature of the kind of pulp adventure Call of Cthulhu frequently inspires.

"Glozel est Authentique!" may not be the worst adventure collection ever put together for Call of Cthulhu, but it's pretty bad. At the same time, I feel for the authors of these scenarios, since I suspect, like so many gamers, they had a very skewed impression of what the game (and Lovecraft) was about. How could they not, when Chaosium's first adventure collection was Shadows of Yog-Sothoth? I love Shadows and have used it profitably several times, but it does tend to diminish Lovecraft's ideas somewhat. The same is equally true of Masks of Nyarlathotep, which many not unreasonably consider the greatest roleplaying adventure ever written. Still, a bad product is a bad product and "Glozel est Authentique!" is bad.