Magnetic DnD

I’m on a mountain!

But that’s not important right now. What is important is how people who are in the subculture of fantasy RPGs (especially DnD) tend to find one another. I’ve been thinking about this a lot as I look over the lakes of the Adirondack. Despite the fact that they are relatively rare and rarely within my natural social group of shared humor and interest, we always end up in a basement playing DnD together. It’s magnetic. It’s probably magical.

When I worked at Busch Gardens, I saw a man lumbering about Germany. Something drew me to this man, despite the fact that he was formidably large, much older, and had a big, bushy beard.

Actually I think the beard is what drew me to him in the first place. I’m not sure how, but some people wear beards like they wish they were a dwarf or a wizard, and other people wear them like they think it’s rugged or hip. I could tell that this man thought an axe would compliment his beard nicely.

I spent many days trying to attract his attention, but I have none of the physical features that clue people into my subgenre interest. I held myself like an elf, stroked my chin like a wizard’s beard grew there, but he did not notice.

Then, one day, I saw him on break at the same time I was. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and sat down across the table from him and his fried chicken meal.

He looked up, eyes suspicious under eyebrows as bushy as his beard. Fried breading collected in the wiry hairs, and I immediately felt I was in a tavern asking a dwarf if he has heard rumors of a man in black.

“If I said a warhammer deals 1d10 damage,” I said, and trailed off, uncertain.

“I’d say you play 4.0,” he said, and smiled. Not only did he acknowledge me, but he even managed to scoff that I played the newer version of Dungeons and Dragons over the more traditional 3.5.

I still don’t know how I found the courage to do this, or why I thought introducing myself with that particular line was suave. Though it turned out fantastically, improbably well, and created one of the fondest memories I hold, that was a pretty high risk for a low chance of finding another player. I think the subconscious radio waves each player gives off gave me the confidence to approach him.

Two years later, my freshman year of college, I saw posters along my dorm wall. “Do YOU Want to Be a Wizard?” They asked, with a montage of wizards from every major fantasy production within the past twenty years.

I did.

So I went to the suggested meeting with my Manfriend, and we prepared to become wizards. The host turned out to be a tall, thin guy wearing a shirt listing fantasy RPG tropes. We were already excited.

He gave an invigorating discussion about wizards through history—from medicine men to the properties of meditation. He talked about herbs and their evolution to pharmacies. He basically told us to find the wizard within all of us.

I was charged. And I was also convinced he, too, was a member of our subgenre. Manfriend and I tried to saunter up to him afterwards, but he slipped between our fingers. A nervous freshman, I was afraid to ask him outright. I did much investigation and found out he was an RA on the floor below me. In the dead of night, I wrote a message on his door.

“If you have any information about DnD here at this school, please contact me.” I left my email but no name.

Two days later he responded: “Mystery person—I am starting a game here next semester and trying to get a tabletop gaming club started. Let me know if you would like to be updated or included in the game.”

Would I ever!

And thus I started playing DnD at my college, and Manfriend and I immersed ourselves in the pre-collected group of players—including, but not limited to, an employee at the local video game shop, a regional head of the Wizards of the Coast tabletop gaming organization, a brewer of mead, and two men with magnificent beards.

With the tabletop gaming club’s debut, I started pulling my other likely friends in. “Just one game,” I’d say as I helped them roll a character. I got fifteen people who had never thought they’d roll a dice playing even after I stopped bribing them.

With each person I grew more confident, until finally whenever I saw a triforce belt, a picture of a sword, even an offhand reference to fantasy humor, I blurt “I play Dungeons and Dragons!” just to check. Unfortunately this method is less accurate.

To try to capture the magic, I’ve created a chart that pinpoints some of the cues I get to approach a person. The closer the proximity to DND and larger the font, the greater the likelihood they’ve played. 

(click to enlarge) credit to Jordan, Curt, and David for suggesting things they pick up on when identifying a player.

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Why I Can No Longer Play Morrowind

After a good year of Morrowind, a relapse into Oblivion, the discovery and descent into Mount and Blade, and Dragon Age, I've come to terms with my condition. I am too greedy to play such free-flowing RPGs. Here is a brief illustrated narrative of my path to ruin.

First, the character questions.

Talk about an existential crisis. Do I want to virtually assume a strange and unfamiliar gender? Stick to my roots?

Then you get to designing the character. This is somewhat time-consuming for me…

Once I've spent a good many hours matching the facial proportions of Queen Latifah or Patrick Stewart, I still have many important decisions to make. Rogue or Paladin? Skills? Weapon points? Do I want to be ironic—a small framed woman with a greatsword? A wood elf Arnold Schwarzenegger? This typically takes another hour, and often results in me going back to alter the face to accommodate the class.

Finally I’ve been released into the game world. I’ve selected a rogue, or a mage with all my skills in secrecy and lockpicking. I bypass the first friendly guard who tries to approach me with a plot relevant quest, break into the first hut I see, and loot their meager life possessions. Then I trade the plates and sack of potatoes for a few coins and keep at it until I can buy myself a sexy suit of armor or weapon, both of which will make it easier for me to loot.

I spend hours prowling from house to house searching for chests of jewelry left untended. Slowly but surely I build up my small stash of coin using varying levels of thievery from Robin-hood style to shanking them in the street for a brass bracelet.

After days of stealing from the NPCs, I find I have no more strength to hold my gains. I put more points in strength the next time I level up, but I can’t keep up with the burden of my riches. So I kill someone that lives in a likely looking house and start dumping my ill-gotten gains there.

This pleases me to no end for roughly 80 hours. Then I start to feel guilty every time I pass the friendly guard, the reminder that though I’m at the top level and have raided every tomb and slayed many a creature, I still haven’t taken care of the rats back from the beginning of the game.

The guilt starts to eat at me. “Well, maybe I should just talk to him,” I think. But I procrastinate. There’s a new area to explore! I can go all the way north by this ship! Finally I’m squirming with guilt and I approach him for the quest, to find out I’d killed the rats and the owner of the building and stolen her pitiful payment in the same swoop as I stole her dress.

Only then I start asking myself important questions. Like what exactly I achieved by owning all magical glass armor and the highest level enchanted battle ax. I hadn’t spoken to my grandparents in days, written a paper, or made my bed. I didn’t follow the plot of the game, so I wasn’t even any nearer to accomplishing an imaginary objective.

What I learned from this experience? 

Not much.