Stuck

If you’d told my younger self that, by middle age, Star Wars, Star Trek, Dungeons & Dragons – all the things I loved as a boy – would not only still exist but would be huge entertainment "brands," I doubt I’d have believed you. I certainly wouldn’t have believed I’d no longer care about them. Worse, I never would have imagined I’d feel repulsed by what they’ve become.

And yet, here we are.

Plenty of commentators have observed a phenomenon sometimes called “stuck culture” and I think that captures part of my malaise. Contemporary pop culture seems either unable or unwilling to move on from the past. Instead, it recycles, reboots, and repackages the same "intellectual properties" – a phrase I feel unclean even typing – over and over again, as though what we truly need is just one more sequel, one more origin story, one more “gritty reimagining” of a once-beloved character or setting.

This cultural stagnation is especially glaring in the realm of the nerds, where hobbies were once defined by originality and creativity. Now? They're more often defined by compulsive repetition and the embalmed echoes of past glories.

Don’t misunderstand me: there’s nothing wrong with nostalgia. Remembering the things that once brought us joy is natural, even humanizing. However, there’s a difference, in my opinion, between nostalgia and necromancy. So much of popular culture today, particularly nerd culture, feels like it’s reanimating corpses. Bigger budgets, flashier effects, and algorithmic polish don’t bring these creations back to life. They only parade them around, lifeless and hollow, like mummified icons. The result isn’t a return to something vital or real. Instead, it’s a grotesque simulacrum, stripped of its original context, meaning, and soul.

In the age of content algorithms, our past preferences become templates for future production. Innovation is replaced by optimization – and what’s being optimized isn’t storytelling or artistry, but you. Or rather, your predictable patterns of engagement. If you once loved, say, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, they'll feed you a dozen pale imitations, each more toothless, more risk-averse, and more emotionally flat than the last. If you liked elves and dungeons in 1982, the machine will churn out endless corporate flavors of the same, carefully drained of the strangeness and wonder that once made them sing.

This is apparent even in roleplaying games. There was a time when RPGs were gloriously, sometimes chaotically, diverse. Every few months brought some new idea, some strange world, some half-baked but fascinating mechanic. Some of it was brilliant, some of it was garbage, but all of it felt alive. Today? Most major RPG products are variations on a narrow set of tropes established decades ago. Even the Old School Renaissance, of which I count myself a part, often falls prey to the same trap: remaking, rehashing, repeating.

So when did creativity give way to caretaking? When did our hobby stop being about imagining new worlds and become a museum of preserved brands?

It wasn’t always this way. Nerd subcultures were once genuinely weird – offputting, insular, and proudly obscure. They were difficult to access and defiantly uncool and that very inaccessibility acted as a crucible, forging originality and independence. But the rise of the Internet, and especially social media. has flattened all subcultures. Everything is now accessible, marketable, and smoothed out for mass consumption. Because nerds were among the earliest adopters of these technologies, nerd culture may have suffered the most from this transformation.

The result is a creeping homogenization. “Fantasy” now means elves and dragons. “Sci-fi” means space wizards. Every new game must have a "brand identity," a "product roadmap," a social media presence. Anything that doesn’t fit the mold is quietly ignored, regardless of how original or inspired it might be.

What we’re losing in this cycle of endless recycling isn’t just novelty but meaning. The worlds we once explored, whether in a galaxy far, far away or deep beneath a ruined castle, mattered because they were new. They challenged our imaginations. They opened doors we didn’t even know were there. When everything becomes a remix of a remix, that sense of discovery is lost. That may be the real tragedy – not simply that nerd culture has changed, but that it has ceased to move on. It no longer dares to venture into the unknown. It circles the same drain, hoping that the next familiar logo will somehow rekindle the old spark.

But it won’t. It can’t.

The antidote to stuck culture isn’t rage and it isn’t despair. It’s refusal. Refusal to let our cultural memory be mined for spare parts. Refusal to accept brand management in place of imagination. Refusal to mistake familiarity for worth.

There are still creators out there doing strange, beautiful, uncompromising work. There are still games being written, books being published, ’zines being assembled that don’t give a damn about algorithms or intellectual property portfolios. Seek them out. Support them. Better yet, make your own.

Let the past be the past, not a franchise.

Dragonlance at the End of the World

One of many things that doesn't always come through in my campaign update posts are the little moments of roleplaying and character development that are, for me anyway, why I continue to participate in this hobby after so many decades. Reading those posts and the supplementary ones that draw attention to larger developments within them, one might well think the Big Stuff is all that matters to me. Of course, the Big Stuff does matter to me, especially in my House of Worms and Barrett's Raiders campaigns, where political, social, and religious struggles are important drivers of the action. Even so, it's the characters who matter most to me. They are, after all, the means by which my wonderful players interact with the situations I set before them and I appreciate the added texture they can add to the game world.

An amusing case in point is Corporal Wayne "Rocketman" Schweyk. Rocketman was originally a back-up character, introduced during the unit's time in the Free City of Kraków. All the players had a back-up character, both to fill out the unit's complement, but also as insurance in case one of the "main" characters died in combat or through some other means. Rocketman, as his name suggests, had been part of a Multiple Launch Rocket System crew during the earlier stages of the Twilight War. He eventually found his way to the Free City and became part of a group of displaced American soldiers there, some of whom joined the Raiders when they fled Kraków and its Machiavellian politics. 

As a character, Rocketman has several defining characteristics. Most obviously, he likes rockets, missiles, grenade launchers, mortars, and similar weaponry. Second, he is a good driver and always volunteers to drive one of the unit's vehicles. Finally, he's an avid reader of Dragonlance novels and makes an effort to seek out new sources of them whenever it's practical. Now that the Raiders are back in the USA, this is a fair bit easier than it was in Poland. Recently, Rocketman has begun to branch out. He's expressed an interest in Forgotten Realms novels, too, a few of which he was able to obtain in trade from soldiers stationed at Fort Lee.

On the one hand, this bit of characterization is a joke, making fun of just how many of these novels TSR published throughout the '80s and '90s – and there were a lot of them. We looked into the matter and, assuming that, in the timeline of Barrett's Raiders, TSR stopped producing new Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms novels at the end of 1997, shortly after the first Soviet nuclear strikes against America, there'd still be just shy of 100 Dragonlance novels and a little less than 80 Forgotten Realms novels. As I said, there really were a lot of these novels, but, from what I understand, they sold very, very well, outshining even the gaming material on which they were based. Talk about brandification!

On the other hand, little details like help a character to come alive. They help set him apart from his comrades and often serve as motivations for what the character does. In the case of Rocketman, he really does spend time talking to other soldiers, learning if any of them shares his interest in fantasy novels and whether there's library or other potential source for more of them. Further, his interest helps ground the campaign in its time and place. Barrett's Raiders is presently set in December 2000 in an alternate timeline that diverged at least as far back as 1985, if not earlier. Seeing as we're a quarter century removed from its chronological date and in a different reality altogether, these small reminders have proven useful.

From time to time, I should probably devote more posts to stuff like this. I've repeatedly said that the success and longevity of my various campaigns is, in large part, due to my players, who have created some really fun and memorable characters. They're one of the things that keep me engaged week after week. Shining the spotlight on some of them might prove helpful or at least interesting to readers as well.

Smoke Rings and Sorcery: An Ode to Wormy

Among the many delights of flipping through issues of Dragon magazine from my youth is getting the chance to see Dave Trampier's Wormy comic strip once again. Long before I was conscious of the names of any of the artists who appeared in my favorite RPG products, I knew Wormy. Even among the clutter of rules variants, advertisements, fiction, and the occasionally bombastic editorials that defined Dragon during the years when I most avidly read it, Wormy stood out, in large part because it was so strange. It was a peculiar, beautiful little world unto itself, filled with pool-playing dragons, cigar-chomping ogres, and an imp who spoke with the laid-back confidence of a veteran hustler. It was, in short, utterly unlike anything else in the pages of Dragon and it fascinated me – in large part because I didn't fully understand it or its continuing storyline, having picked it up many issues after it first began.

Wormy's debut (in issue #9, September 1977) occurred when Dragon was still very much in its formative years. Indeed, the hobby of roleplaying itself was barely out of its own infancy and TSR’s flagship magazine was still trying to figure out what kind of publication it wanted to be. Early issues mixed game material with essays, fiction, and humor. Comics became a regular feature before long, with J.D. Webster's Finieous Fingers being one of the more well-known of the bunch, even though it ended its run about a year before I started reading Dragon. But Wormy stood out as something different. It was never simply an in-joke for gamers nor a gag strip loosely inspired by fantasy tropes. Instead, it presented a fully realized fantasy world rendered in lush color and with a distinct artistic sensibility.

What immediately set Wormy apart was, of course, Trampier’s art. Nowadays, we all celebrate Trampier from his iconic work on the AD&D Player’s Handbook and the Dungeon Master’s Screen. His style is clean, expressive and rich in texture and character. Wormy carried those same qualities into serialized comic form, but with an added flourish of visual wit and playfulness. The strip was never slapdash or haphazard. Trampier’s panels were packed with detail, his character designs expressive, his linework confident. Each page was a feast for the eyes and even when the plot meandered a bit (as it regularly did), the visuals carried the reader along to such an extent that he didn't care. I know I didn't, even though, as I said, it wasn't always clear to my younger self just what was happening in many installments.

The tone of the strip is one of its greatest charms. Wormy is unquestionably fantasy, but it’s fantasy as seen through a haze of cigar smoke and the low hum of a barroom pool table. Its characters speak in a colloquial American idiom that lends the strip a grounded, personable quality. One never gets the sense that Wormy or Ace or the ogres and trolls with whom he shares his world are interested in epic quests or noble deeds. They’re more likely to be plotting a scam, hustling a demon, or arguing about who’s buying the next round. This sense of the fantastical-as-everyday-life gives Wormy much of its charm and humor, not to mention its distinctiveness from the other comics that appeared alongside it in Dragon. 

In this, Wormy mirrors the culture of early roleplaying itself. The early hobby, as reflected in the pages of Dragon, was a strange admixture of wargamers, fantasy and science fiction fans, history buffs, and countercultural weirdos. This was a time before fantasy had hardened into genre orthodoxy, when anything could happen and often did. The world Trampier presented in Wormy feels like a campaign gone delightfully off the rails: a sandbox setting where the players long ago stopped caring about the dungeon and are now embroiled in a decades-long tavern brawl. For me, that was a big part of what I found so compelling about Wormy. It was so unlike my then-narrow conception of "fantasy" that I couldn't help but keep reading.

Over time, Trampier introduced a larger story into the strip. There were plots and schemes in motion and strange characters lurking just out of frame. Readers were teased with glimpses of the larger world beyond Wormy’s abode and the smoky dens of the trolls. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Wormy vanished. Trampier’s final installment appeared in Dragon #132 (April 1988), ending mid-story. He never offered a public explanation. Other than the following, which appeared in issue #136 (August 1988), TSR never provided an explanation for what had happened:

Wormy, along with its creator, David Trampier, vanished without a trace.

This abrupt disappearance only deepened the comic strip’s allure. In the years that followed, fans spun wild theories: Was Trampier dead? Had he severed all ties with the gaming world? Or was it something darker? For decades, the mystery endured, unanswered. Then, in 2002, word emerged that Trampier was alive, living a quiet life in southern Illinois as a taxi driver. He had steadfastly declined all invitations to return to art or gaming until 2014, when he agreed to showcase some of his original artwork at a local Illinois game convention. Tragically, just three weeks before the event, he died suddenly at age 59.

In hindsight, Wormy feels like a microcosm of an entire era in fantasy gaming, a time that was raw, personal, and unapologetically chaotic. The strip was a labor of love, brimming with anarchic energy, improvisational flair, and unfiltered creativity. Like the Dragon magazine of its heyday, Wormy was gloriously messy, fiercely idiosyncratic, and utterly brilliant in its refusal to conform or explain itself.

As the hobby grows ever more polished and commercialized, Wormy stands as a vibrant reminder of its roots, a time when oddballs and iconoclasts like Trampier defined its spirit. More than a relic, Wormy embodies the untamed passion and fearless imagination of those who dared to be unapologetically strange. It captures a moment when the heart of gaming pulsed with individuality, free from the gloss of corporate agendas.

Whenever I leaf through old issues of Dragon, I find myself missing Wormy – not just the comic, but what it stood for: the spirit of unfiltered creativity, the joy of irreverence, and the beautiful imperfections of a world made by and for dreamers. In remembering Wormy, we remember that the true magic of roleplaying lies not in polished production values or grand designs, but in the bold, eccentric, and often messy adventures we undertake with one another .

The Paradox of Popularity

A family member recently returned from an extended trip abroad and our conversation about her experiences got me thinking about the strange (and, in fact, melancholy) fate of popular tourist destinations. Travelers seek these places out because they're unusual, striking, even mysterious. They promise something rare or difficult to find elsewhere. However, the act of going there, especially in large numbers, begins to erode the very qualities that made them appealing in the first place. A scenic, secluded village becomes a commercialized maze of souvenir shops. A beautiful natural site is hemmed in by railings, signage, and crowds. A place that once felt secret or sacred now feels almost contrived, curated, or even artificial.

Whether we like it or not, popularity changes things.

This paradox – the destruction of uniqueness through attention – is not limited to travel. Grumpy old man that I am, I’ve long wondered if the same thing hasn’t happened to our shared hobby of roleplaying, especially in recent years.

When I first discovered Dungeons & Dragons over the Christmas break of 1979, the game was still pretty obscure, though it had become a little less so in the aftermath of the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III in August of that same year. The blue rulebook I rescued from the hall linen closet had almost the air of a grimoire. What advice it offered me as a newcomer was sparse and scattered across its 48 pages, requiring careful study and a lot of inference. Most people I knew at the time had never heard of a "roleplaying game" and, thanks to the aforementioned "steam tunnels incident," those who had regarded it with a combination of confusion and mild suspicion. Because of this, there was a strong feeling among my friends and I that we were discovering something odd and special. Gathering in one another's basements, we did our best to piece together an understanding of this new hobby from obscure rulebooks, rumors, and the occasional older kid who claimed to know how it all worked. The end result was messy, anarchic – and thrilling.

Over the decades, especially in the last few years, RPGs seem to have become much more mainstream. Celebrities openly talk about playing them. Big box stores carry them. There’s an abundance of support material, both official and unofficial. Rules are more clearly presented. The art is slick. Everyone seems to have a better idea of what a roleplaying game is. Dungeons & Dragons is now a brand name in every sense. On the whole, this is a good thing: more people are playing, and that means a larger pool from which to draw new players. But I’d be lying if I said the hobby still feels quite the same as it did before it achieved its current level of popularity.

What was once a secret door into another world is now a well-lit, signposted thoroughfare. The sense of personal discovery, the need to make rather than simply consume, feels less urgent. Much of the weirdness, the danger, the raw possibility that drew me in has been sanded down in exchange for broader appeal. It's easier than ever to play, but in some ways harder to find that old spark that made it feel so alive.

I don’t mean this simply as a condemnation, but rather as a recognition of the very real cost of popularity. Something rare becomes common; something personal becomes cultural property. There’s nothing sinister in this, only inevitable change. The same pattern plays out again and again, whether in travel, music, or games. Once you’ve found something wonderful, it’s only a matter of time before others find it too and the thing begins to change, often to the point that it's no longer the thing you fell in love with in the first place.

For those of us who remember the early days (or who simply seek to emulate them), it can feel like returning to a once-sleepy village only to find it transformed into a bustling tourist trap. The outlines are familiar, but the mood has shifted. The magic isn’t gone entirely, of course, but it’s harder to reach, buried beneath the noise and polish.

Still, it can be found. In a quiet moment around the table. In a forgotten module pulled from a forgotten shelf. In the laughter of friends lost in a world of their own making. The secret may no longer be hidden, but the joy of discovery remains – for those willing to look past the railings and the signage.

A Hobby, Not a Uniform

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have often commented on just how much RPG-related merchandise has proliferated in the decades since my youth. Walk into any convention, visit almost any local game shop, or browse any online storefront and you're certain to find a dizzying array of T-shirts, hoodies, pins, mugs, and other paraphernalia emblazoned with dragons, polyhedral dice, or cheeky slogans about hit points and saving throws. There are enamel pins shaped like D20s, gemstone dice that made from actual gemstones, and even baby clothes. For a lot of gamers, this is simply a natural extension of their passion, a way to carry a piece of the hobby with them wherever they go.

For me, a certified stick in the mud, it's something with which I've never really connected. In fact, it makes me cringe a little.

This probably sounds odd coming from someone who writes a blog devoted to roleplaying games. I’ve probably spent more time thinking and writing about these games than a lot of my fellow roleplayers –whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen – and I've never had any hesitation in discussing my hobby with others. In fact, I’ve generally found that when I do explain my interest in RPGs to non-gamers, most of them are curious, even enthusiastic. Roleplaying is an unusual hobby, to be sure, but thanks to decades of computer and video games, fantasy novels, and popular streaming shows, I think most people nowadays have some sense of what I'm talking about, even if they've never rolled a die in anger.

Despite this, I rarely wear T-shirts or any other apparel that advertises my involvement in the hobby – at least not publicly. I do own a handful of such things, of course, but I mostly wear them as sleep shirts. This isn't out of embarrassment. If I were embarrassed, I probably wouldn’t have spent so many years publicly documenting my thoughts on obscure RPGs, old AD&D modules, or the ins and outs of Tékumel. At my age, I’m quite comfortable with who I am and how I enjoy spending my free time. Even so, I don’t define myself by my hobbies, let alone feel the need to broadcast my interests in them through textiles.

This is a personal preference, of course. But I do find there’s something just a bit strange and even a little off-putting about wearing one's enthusiasms like a uniform. It can feel, at times, like a kind of branding, as though we’re walking billboards for our subcultures. I understand the appeal: there's comfort in signaling shared interests, especially in a world that, particularly in recent years, feels increasingly fragmented and alienating. For many people, these shirts and hats and pins are conversation starters or community badges, small ways of affirming, "These are my people. I belong here." I can respect that. I really do. It’s just not for me.

Perhaps it’s generational or maybe it’s the result of having come of age at a time when fandoms weren’t quite as performative or commercialized as they seem to have become. In my youth, being a roleplayer was something you did, not something you were, let alone something you wore. One's love of the game was expressed through carefully drawing up a dungeon map, creating a memorable character, or debating rules interpretations for hours with friends. The idea that there was any need to demonstrate one's investment through merchandise would have struck us as both odd and a little suspect, like someone claiming to be a film buff because he owned a Star Wars lunchbox.

That said, I understand that times change. The hobby has grown immensely and with that growth has come a broader cultural footprint. What was niche in my youth is now more mainstream, or at least adjacent to it. With mainstream success comes branding opportunities. That’s the nature of modern fandoms: they’re not just about shared interests anymore, but about "lifestyle" and, inevitably, commerce. A shirt isn’t just a shirt; it’s a signal, a declaration, a membership card.

Again, I’m not knocking anyone who enjoys that sort of thing. In its way, it’s another form of expression and one that clearly resonates with many. I suppose I’ve always preferred my interests to emerge through conversation rather than through outward signifiers like clothing. If someone asks me what I’m into, I’ll happily tell him as much about my hobbies (of which roleplaying is but one) as he'll allow me. Until then, I’m content to let my enthusiasms simmer quietly beneath the surface, where they can surprise and delight rather than shout for attention.

I suppose that’s the essence of it. Some people wear their fandoms on their sleeves – literally – and others keep them tucked away in their notebooks, their memories, and on their game shelves. Both are valid. As for me, I’ll stick to my plain shirts and quiet conversations. After all, a little mystery never hurt anyone.

800-lb. Gorilla

Last week's post, Pretenders to the Throne, was occasioned by my frustration about the fact that, in general, posts about Dungeons & Dragons tend to get more views and generate more comments than those about any other RPG. Now, on one level, that's just common sense. Not only is D&D the first and most well-known roleplaying game, but it's also been the most popular one for a half century now. No matter how many players of other games might despair of this fact, it's true. Dungeons & Dragons is and always has been the only roleplaying game whose name is recognizable outside our little hobby – or indeed inside some segments of it. In my experience, there are far more gamers who play only D&D than there are gamers who play a wide variety of them.

As commenter Rick noted the other day, that's the power of branding. By getting to publication first and by having a title that's both evocative and easy to say, Dungeons & Dragons has a number of advantages that make it uniquely well placed to be the leader of the pack. I remember some years ago, back when Hasbro first bought Wizards of the Coast, reading an article in some business magazine that the name Dungeons & Dragons was one of best known in the world, alongside things like Coca-Cola and Kleenex. While most people had no real sense of what D&D actually was – most, I think, believed it to be some kind of video game – they nevertheless had at least heard of D&D, something that could not be said about any other RPG, no matter how successful or celebrated it was within the hobby.

Being the most well-known is not, of course, an indication of quality, a point frequently made by partisans of different, less-known brands, both within and without our hobby. Anyone who prefers Pepsi to Coke or Burger King to McDonald's, to cite just two rather prosaic examples, probably feels this way. Believe me, I'm sympathetic to this point of view. As a fan of Traveller, for example, I wish the game were better known, appreciated, and played than it is at present, but, as the old saying goes, if wishes were credits, beggars wouldn't need to travel by low passage. I make this joke to illustrate my point about just how obscure RPGs other than D&D are, even within the hobby. How many of you reading this post knew what I was talking about? (There's no need to answer that.)

I love lots of roleplaying games. Last year, I did a two-part post about my ten favorites – and I have many more besides. But I know only too well that, if I were to write lots of posts to discussing, say, Pendragon or Gamma World, they'd be among my least read posts and certainly the least commented upon. As you all know, I've been refereeing an Empire of the Petal Throne campaign for the last nine and a half years and, despite that, my posts about that campaign and its setting of Tékumel don't receive a lot of attention or comment. Don't misunderstand me: I completely understand why that is the case. Neither Empire of the Petal Throne nor Tékumel are widely known even within the hobby, so why would I expect posts about them to generate much attention?

And that's really my point. I write so much about Dungeons & Dragons and its history here, because D&D is the single most widely known and played roleplaying game, even in 2024. Those of us who enjoy more than just D&D are very apt to claim that we're presently living in a Golden Age of Roleplaying, with more games and more variety of games than ever before. That might well be true by some metrics, but, on one significant metric – popularity – nothing much has changed. Dungeons & Dragons remains the game most people are playing and that most people, even those of you reading this blog, are interested in reading about. It's not for nothing that I use a version of Trampier's iconic demon idol in my masthead.

What does this all mean? Honestly, I'm not sure. Though it's not my favorite RPG, I still very much like D&D, so I don't think there's any chance I'll stop writing posts about the game and its history. However, my frustration with the fact that it's those posts, with a few exceptions, that tend to generate the most interest is very real. I don't like writing stuff that garners little or no interest. Who, after all, likes to feel as if he's shouting into the void? At the same time, I cannot expect most readers are going to be familiar with all the same obscure things that I am or that they'll share my interest in the same. To some extent, if one is going to write for public consumption, one must write what will attract the most readers and, in my case, that means posts about Dungeons & Dragons. 

C'est la vie. 

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. 

Retrospective: Greyhawk Wars

I've never been much of a wargamer (take a drink). Despite that, I've always been interested in wargaming, particularly the hex-and-chit variety epitomized by Avalon Hill. Over the years, I've dabbled in wargames, such as my recent flirtation with the COIN series published by GMT, but I've never really committed to them in the way that many of my friends have done. I thus have a minor inferiority complex about this, feeling that my gaming "education" is somehow deficient because I haven't played wargames as often or as widely as my peers.

So, when TSR released a board wargame set in Gary Gygax's World of Greyhawk setting in 1991, I took immediate notice of it. This was my chance to get in some much needed wargaming experience. Alas, things didn't quite go as planned on this score, but I'll get to that soon enough. For the moment, let's focus on the matter of the game's title. According to the box cover, one could be forgiven for thinking it's called Greyhawk Adventures: Wars. However, the text of the rulebook repeatedly calls it simply Greyhawk Wars, which is how I've always referred to it, though some online spaces (like BoardGameGeek) favors the longer, more ponderous title.

In addition to the possible confusion over the title, it's also worth noting that, despite being a wargame, Greyhawk Wars was released under the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons 2nd Edition banner. This is in spite of the fact that it contains no roleplaying content whatsoever, not even the thin gruel provided by Dragons of Glory, another TSR strategic-level wargame set within a D&D campaign world. Of course, TSR had long been notorious about slapping the (A)D&D logo on just about everything, in an effort to build and expand its "brand." Compared to, say, wind-up toys or sunglasses, this particular bit of brand building was pretty innocuous and indeed could be justified in that it was intended to be the lead-in to a relaunch of the World of Greyhawk setting.

Though Gygax departed TSR for good by 1986, the company retained control of Greyhawk. Throughout the late 1980s, there were a handful of Greyhawk products released, most notably Greyhawk Adventures, but none of them, in my opinion, did a good job of carrying on the flavor and tone set by Gygax's original. If anything, they blandified the setting, reducing it to the worst kind of vanilla fantasy. Unsurprisingly, the setting's popularity – and, therefore, sales – declined, especially when compared to TSR's other two AD&D settings: Krynn and the Forgotten Realms. 

TSR probably recognized this fact, which is why, starting in the early '90s, the company attempted to better differentiate the World of Greyhawk in the hopes that it'd be more appealing to AD&D players. The first step in doing so was Greyhawk Wars. The wargame, designed by David "Zeb" Cook, concerns a massive war that engulfs the peoples and kingdoms of the Flanaess, one whose results upend the status quo presented in previous World of Greyhawk products. Whatever my personal feelings about the end result, it's hard not to admire the boldness of this approach. For years beforehand, Gary Gygax, in periodic Greyhawk updates published in Dragon, had been hinting at the possibility of such a large-scale "world war," but he never pulled the trigger on the idea, probably because he intended Oerth to be an open-ended "steady state" setting each Dungeon Master could customize according to his own desires.

Greyhawk Wars takes a very different approach. Instead of leaving the World of Greyhawk perpetually teetering on the edge of grand events, Cook opts to topple the whole structure, throwing long established peoples, places, and situations into chaos. At the end of the battles depicted in the wargame, a new order is established across the Flanaess, one where the forces of Good are battered, beaten, and on the defensive, while Evil, as represented by the Empire of Iuz, the Scarlet Brotherhood, and the successor states of the Great Kingdom is on the rise. The result is something that's definitely different from the original World of Greyhawk. Whether it's better is another matter.

As tabletop wargames go, Greyhawk Wars occupies a middle ground between being simple enough a newcomer can easily pick it up and so complex that only a hardened veteran of Third Reich could ever play it. The game rules are relatively short – only 8 pages – and straightforward. While there are lots of counters (representing military units), there are no hexes. Instead, the map of the Flanaess into movement "areas" of varying size, based to some extent on terrain. Also included in the game are a number of cards, some of which represent random events and treasures that can be used to augment the abilities of military units. Named NPCs (called "Heroes") play a role in the game, too, which lends it a slight roleplaying flair, though, for the most part, this is still very much a standard wargame. 

Greyhawk Wars is intended for 2 to 6 players, depending on the scenario, each with its own victory conditions. These conditions, though, are solely for gaming purposes and have no bearing on the canonical versions of these events, much in the way that a Confederate player in a wargame about the American Civil War can emerge victorious, contrary to history. The 32-page Adventurer's Book lays out the "true" conclusion of the Greyhawk Wars, the one I described above, with Evil ascendant and Good on the defensive. This is in contrast to the earlier Red Arrow, Black Shield module, which, while assuming a particular outcome for its world war, nevertheless considers the possibility of other outcomes and how they might affect ongoing campaigns. Greyhawk Wars allows for no such possibility and all subsequent Greyhawk products would follow the canonical version of history detailed in the Adventurer's Book.

As I alluded to at the start of this post, my own experiences with Greyhawk Wars weren't great. That's not a fault of the game, which is fine, if unexceptional. Rather, I had difficulty in finding others interested in taking the time to play any of its scenarios. Between setting up and playing, most took 3 hours or more – a short time compared to many wargames, I know – and that limited my pool of potential players. As a result, I don't think I ever played Greyhawk Wars more than a half-dozen times and rarely to conclusion. My perpetual quest for more wargaming knowledge and experience was thwarted once again.

All that said, I can't help but find Greyhawk Wars a fascinating window into the last decade of TSR's existence. The mere fact that the company published something approximating a classic hex-and-chit wargame set in Greyhawk is remarkable in its own right. That it was also the first part of a larger plan to reboot Gary Gygax's campaign setting into something they hoped would be more attractive to fantasy roleplayers in the 1990s is just as remarkable. I can't speak much about the success of the former, since, as I said, I didn't get the chance to play it much. As to the latter, that's the subject of next week's Retrospective post, so stay tuned.

The Path to Adventure

I've commented in several previous posts that the period between 1982 and 1984 is a fascinating one for both TSR and its most famous product, Dungeons & Dragons. This period, I believe, represents the peak of game's faddish popularity, when the company was so flush with cash – and keen to ensure its continued flow – that it slapped the D&D logo on almost everything, from woodburning and needlepoint sets to toys and beach towels, to name just a few. Of course, this same period also saw the publication of the Frank Mentzer edited D&D Basic Set, the best-selling version of that venerable product that TSR ever released, whose sales no doubt contributed greatly to the company's bottom line.

Right smack in the middle of this same period is the premier of the CBS animated television series for which Gary Gygax is credited as a co-producer. The series, which ran for three seasons between 1983 and 1985 and a total of 27 episodes, was part of an effort to increase the pop cultural footprint of D&D beyond the realm of RPGs. So far as I know, the cartoon was the only fruit of that effort, despite Gygax's frequent reports that a Dungeons & Dragons movie of some sort was in the works. Readers more knowledgeable than I can correct me if I am mistaken in this judgment.

Because I was too old for its intended target audience, I never paid close attention to the D&D cartoon during its initial run. Consequently, I took even less note of the various cartoon-branded products released in conjunction with it. I could probably write several posts about this topic and perhaps I eventually will, but, for the moment, what most interests me are the six "Pick a Path to Adventure" books published in 1985 by TSR. As you might expect, these books are all very similar to the Endless Quest series (themselves modeled on the earlier and more well known "Choose Your Own Adventure" books), but drawing on characters and elements of the cartoon. 

As I said, I was completely unaware of the existence of these books until comparatively recently. I certainly never saw them at the time of their original publication. Even if I had, there's zero chance I'd have read them, given my superior attitude toward the series and its perceived kiddification of my beloved D&D. Now, I find myself somewhat curious about them, if only because some of them apparently introduce new characters (like Eric the Cavalier's younger brother) and concepts unseen in the series. In addition, each of the six books uses a different member of the ensemble cast as its viewpoint character, which is actually not a bad idea. (Take note as well that first book in the series was written by Margaret Weis of Dragonlance fame).

Looking into these books online revealed that, contemporaneous with the Endless Quest books (and a few years before the cartoon-branded books), TSR produced another series of "Pick a Path to Adventure" books under the Fantasy Forest brand. From what I can tell, they appear to have been geared towards a younger audience than the Endless Quest books. Likewise, these books don't carry the D&D logo anywhere, though some of them, like The Ring, the Sword, and the Unicorn, proclaim "From TSR, Inc., the producers of the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS cartoon show." 

Once again, these are books of which I was completely unaware at the time and that I've not seen, let alone read, in the years since. If anyone among my readers has read them, I'd like to know a bit more about them, specifically whether they contain anything that connects them to Dungeons & Dragons. I would assume that they do, because what other purpose would TSR have had in publishing them beyond creating a potential new audience for its games? However, judging solely on the basis of the books' covers, they all look fairly generic. Their connection to D&D, if any, would seem to be limited.

TSR produced another series of "Pick a Path to Adventure" books – or should I say "Pick a Path to Romance and Adventure?" – the (in)famous HeartQuest series of fantasy romance novels. Unlike the other two series, I did know about these. I have a vague recollection of first seeing mention of them in the pages of Dragon, but, despite all my best efforts, I can find no evidence of this. In any case, I saw these in either Waldenbooks or B. Dalton sometimes in 1983 or '84 and had a strongly negative reaction to their existence. Their covers, reminiscent of the Harlequin romance books from the same time, certainly did nothing to endear them to me.

Like the Fantasy Forest series, HeartQuest does not seem to have been explicitly connected to Dungeons & Dragons, at least as far as branding goes. From what I've gathered, they're not actually bad books for what they are, though nothing special. I would imagine that they were another prong in TSR's attempts to expand the audience of their products (and thus their sales). Given that, unlike the Endless Quest books, which had several dozen titles, HeartQuest only had six, suggesting that, whatever its quality, they failed to achieve the goals TSR had set for them.  

I've sometimes jokingly called 1982–1984 the period when TSR was throwing a lot of spaghetti against the wall in the vain hope that some of it might stick. The company certainly tried many different approaches to expanding its customer base to what appears to have been limited success. On the other hand, these book series may well have played a role in helping to build up the company's publishing division. That division would eventually prove very successful – so successful, in fact, that, by the 1990s, it would become the cart pulling the horse of TSR's fortunes. That's a story for a different day (and probably a different writer, since I don't know enough about its fine details). Still, it's always fascinating to look into the forgotten corners of the hobby's history like the "Pick a Path to Adventure" books.

Fake Nerd Holidays

Apparently, because today is May 1 – May Day in many European countries – someone has decided that it's also the made-up "holiday" of Traveller Day, for obvious reasons. 

I must tell you: I don't like this. I absolutely loathe Star Wars Day and its nonsensical date (May 4). I feel similarly about Alien Day (April 26), which, like Traveller Day, I had never even heard of until this year. Much like forced humor, forced holidays grate on my nerves, perhaps because they're usually created by companies looking for new ways to squeeze money out of one of their customers rather than the holidays being organic bottom-up expressions of respect and affection. 

I don't know who came up with Traveller Day or the intentions behind it. Maybe it really does represent something genuinely spontaneous and fan-driven. If so, then why not choose a more suitable date for commemoration, like the date of its original publication? Wouldn't that make more sense? May 1 feels like a marketing stunt rather than something real, but what do I know?

Bah, humbug.

"Gimme a break!"

By the time the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon series premiered in September 1983, I'd been playing D&D almost four years. I was also just shy of fourteen years old. Perhaps inevitably, I greeted the arrival of the cartoon with some trepidation, despite the involvement of Gary Gygax as its co-producer. That's because, at the time, I was increasingly concerned about the "kiddification" of my beloved D&D.  Consequently, I turned up my nose at the cartoon and only caught a handful of its 27 episodes when they were originally broadcast. 

Then, at the tail end of the 3e era, a DVD collection of the entire series was released in 2007. My daughter, who was quite young at the time, took an interest in it and so I bought a copy for her as a Christmas gift. It was only at this point that I ever had a chance to watch the show for any length of time and discovered, with the benefit of age, that it wasn't that bad. It's written for children, to be sure, but, judged with that in mind, it's certainly no worse than any other cartoon of its era and, in some respects, it's better. 

I bring all this up because my now-adult daughter asked me if the DVD collection had been placed in the garage, along with so many other childhood things. I went and checked and, sure enough, that's where it was. I brought it back inside and, over the last couple of weeks, we've been rewatching it slowly, looking to see if there were anything about that we might not have noticed when she was a child. So far, I can't say that there I've gleaned any particularly deep insights from this rewatch. However, I have noticed a few things worthy of comment. When I'm done with the whole series – perhaps in several weeks – I'll do at least one more post on this topic. If nothing else, I have some thoughts about this early attempt to broaden the appeal of Dungeons & Dragons beyond its original audience.

Stuck in the Past

As I've no doubt explained previously, I was never much of a comics reader as a kid – or, more precisely, I was never much of a superhero comics reader as a kid. With the exception of Doctor Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, which I picked up intermittently, the two comics I followed with any devotion were both science fiction titles, Star Wars (about which I've written many times before) and Micronauts (about which I don't believe I have). 

Nevertheless, like all American boys growing up in the 1970s, I was still very much aware of superheroes, thanks in no small part to their TV and movie adaptations, including cartoons. Perhaps because he was Marvel's most popular – and merchandised – character at the time, I had a special fondness for Spider-Man. I loved the terrible 1960s cartoon, which I saw in reruns, as well as the equally awful 1977 live action series, starring Nicholas Hammond of The Sound of Music Fame. I also remember watching the Adam West Batman series, various incarnations of Super Friends, the 1978 Superman movie, and probably others I've long forgotten.

As I got older, I retained a vague affection for the idea of superheroes, especially after I started playing RPGs. I can still vividly recall some of the adventures my friends and I had playing, first, Champions, and, later, Marvel Super Heroes. I remember, too, when we started to see big budget Hollywood movies featuring various costumed characters, starting with Tim Burton's Batman. The release of that movie in 1989 was a major cultural event and its success not only spawned three sequels but also paved the way for yet more superhero movies, a trend that has continued to the present day.

Despite not calling myself a fan of superheroes, I've seen more than my fair share of the superhero movies released in the last three decades, enjoying some more than others. One of the things that's always bugged me about these movies (and other adaptations) is how many of them continue to tread the same ground that their original source material did decades ago. There may indeed be nothing new under the sun, but did we really need to see another version of "The Dark Phoenix Saga?" For that matter, have there been any new superheroes or superhero stories produced in the last couple of decades with any staying power? Why are the biggest pop cultural characters all products of the 1980s or earlier?

I think about this often, most recently during a recent trip with my family. While perusing some weird snacks and candies in a store, I spied a tall, thin, red can featuring what looked to me like Larry Elmore's iconic cover painting for the Frank Mentzer-edited Dungeons & Dragons Basic Set (1984). Drawing closer, it turned that, yes, it was Elmore's artwork on a D&D-branded energy drink calling itself a "Hero's Potion of Power." Intrigued, I bought the thing, but I didn't have the courage to try it. That job fell to my daughter, who declared it "alright, but nothing special." 

On the same trip, we went to a bookstore not far from where I grew up. I hadn't found anything to purchase, so I stood out near the lobby of the store while my daughter paid for a book. When I looked over at the checkout counter, I saw a display filled with little boxes sporting an immediately recognizable color scheme. I did an almost comical double take, because I was sure that my aging eyes must have erred in some way, because I couldn't conceive that I was seeing what I, in fact, was seeing – the familiar blue and brown palette of the AD&D Monster Manual.

Sure enough, that's exactly what it was. Apparently, the boxes contain one of a series of randomized plastic monster figurines based on the illustrations of the original Monster Manual. This, frankly, befuddled me almost as much as the Hero's Potion of Power, but then I've never really understood the appeal of these expensive, randomized "loot boxes." Beyond that, why were the figurines based on the artwork of Dave Trampier and Dave Sutherland rather than more contemporary designs? Did it have something to do with D&D's 50th anniversary? I'm honestly not sure of the answer. For all I know, there may be similar loot boxes available for the monsters of later D&D editions, but my gut tells me that's unlikely to be the case. (If I'm mistaken about this, feel free to correct me in the comments).

Of course, this past Christmas, my wife bought me a Dungeons & Dragons T-shirt that she unexpectedly came across while shopping. She knows I'm normally not a wearer of such things – I abhor the brandification of the game – but the fact that the shirt featured the Erol Otus cover painting of Tom Moldvay's Basic Set was sufficiently unusual that she decided to take a chance. She was right to do so, because I was positively tickled by the gift and often wear it as a sleep shirt (I'd never wear it while out and about – I'm too old for that sort of thing).

I can't help but wonder why it is that, in the pop cultural sphere, so much of what is being presented and sold to us are the products of earlier generations of creative minds. Is this simply the result of a lack of imagination or is it because, on some level, we know that we'll never be able to come up with anything better than our predecessors? If I were to travel back in time to tell my younger self that, decades from now, there'd still be new Star Trek shows and Star Wars movies – or that I couldn't care less about any of them – I doubt he'd believe me and yet here we are. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, but what does it mean when popular culture spends decades luxuriating in it? 

I'm as happy as anyone to see Erol Otus art on a T-shirt (even if he's unlikely to have profited from it in any way). At the same time, I think there's something not just decadent but even stagnant about endlessly recycling the pop culture of the 50s, 60, 70s, and 80s only even more vapid and rampantly consumerist than before. Have we simply run out of new ideas? Or do the new ideas simply lack the appeal of the older ones? What's really going on here and what does it mean?

Be a Creator, Not a Consumer

To say that I was a Star Wars fan during my childhood is something of an understatement. Children are, by nature, given to intense enthusiasms of all sorts, whether for dinosaurs or the planets or ancient Egypt – all of which I was, at various times, as utterly devoted as I was to George Lucas's 1977 space fantasy. During the period between 1977 and the release of The Empire Strikes Back in 1980, I lived and breathed Star Wars. I saw both movies in the theater multiple times, read every newspaper and magazine article about them that I could find, and (of course!) owned a disturbingly large amount of Star Wars-related merchandise. If I hadn't discovered Dungeons & Dragons, I daresay my zeal for the galaxy far, far away would likely have continued unabated well into the next decade.

Looking back on my youthful ardor from the vantage point of jaded middle age, I can't help but feel mildly embarrassed, though, as I already noted, such devotion is in the nature of children. And, to be fair, Star Wars enjoyed a cultural moment of the sort that doesn't happen everyday, so I hope I can be forgiven for being caught up in it. Furthermore, Star Wars was a genuinely good movie, one that simultaneously had a strong connection to earlier storytelling and did things that had never been done before, especially in the field of visual effects. In retrospect, I think it would been more remarkable if I hadn't become a fan of it.

I'm no longer much of a Star Wars fan. Aside from DVDs of the original movies, which I don't think I've actually watched in more than a decade, I don't think there's a single piece of Star Wars merchandise or memorabilia in my home. That's not out of dislike so much as disinterest. I still retain a residual affection for the 1977–1983 films, as I do for many other things I adored as a child, but I no longer devote much mental space – let alone closet space – to Star Wars. Were I to gain the ability to travel back in time and reveal this state of affairs to my younger self, I doubt he would believe me, so important was Star Wars to me as a child.

Even during those three or four years of my childhood, Star Wars wasn't my only interest, but it certainly occupied a pride of place that was immediately evident to anyone who spent more than a few minutes talking to me. Dungeons & Dragons – and roleplaying games more generally – eventually displaced it and indeed surpassed it in staying power. More than four decades after I first cracked open my beloved Holmes Basic Set, I'm still playing RPGs, whereas Star Wars (and lots of other childhood enthusiasms) are now very much in the rearview mirror. 

Allow me to reiterate: this isn't because of dislike on my part, let alone hatred, but largely because of disinterest. I simply don't find Star Wars all that compelling anymore and I suspect it has to do with the way that it's become little more than a brand rather than a vehicle for telling rollicking space fantasy adventures. Arguably, that's always been the case, as evidenced by the large number of Star Wars-branded products available for purchase as soon as the movie was released – a great many of which I proudly owned and displayed. Like a lot of children in the late 1970s, I demonstrated that I was a fan of Star Wars by owning a lot of Star Wars products.

I recall that, at the time, there were critics who complained that George Lucas had "ruined" cinema with the blockbuster success of Star Wars. In their opinion, movie studios would now prioritize crowd-pleasing spectacle over the more serious films that had characterized the early part of the decade. It's an old – and recurring – line of attack that isn't completely without merit. Nowadays, though, I tend to think that the true "sin" of Star Wars is not that it ushered in an era of "dumb" movies, but that it demonstrated just how lucrative merchandising it could be. 

One of the best things about roleplaying games is that, at base, they are vehicles for creating your own rollicking adventures with your friends. I sometimes think we don't recognize just how powerful a thing Gygax and Arneson unleashed upon the world almost half a century ago. There's a reason Greg Stafford likened RPGs to Pandora's Box in the dedication of RuneQuest. After the appearance of D&D, the world was forever changed, in ways both big and small. 

Roleplaying games gave their players the tools to make their own imaginary worlds. Once you had learned their rules, you had everything you could ever need to keep on creating for the rest of your life. This fact has long vexed RPG publishers who, understandably, want to keep selling products, but the truth is that there's absolutely no need to ever purchase anything else. That hasn't stopped game companies from trying to convince you otherwise, of course. If they couldn't get you to buy an adventure or a supplement or a rules expansion, then how about this T-shirt, maquette, or beach towel? Let's equate your hobby with your personal identity to make money!

It's a predictable script, one very similar to that employed by Star Wars merchandising over the years. While there's nothing inherently wrong with this – everyone needs to make a living somehow – it doesn't hold much attraction for me. Been there, done that, literally bought the T-shirt. From my perspective, this hobby is at its best when it's about creating, not simply consuming. If you're a roleplayer, then play – imagine a new setting, generate a character, write up an adventure. That's what makes this pastime so uniquely compelling, especially in a world that seems increasingly hostile to the liberation of the human spirit. Give free rein to your imagination and fight on.

Trivial Pursuits

The other day a friend of mine whom I have not seen in many years paid a visit and, along with two other friends, we had lunch together. One of those other friends brought with him a copy of the Dungeons & Dragons edition of the game Trivial Pursuit. I think I may have been dimly aware of its existence, but I'd certainly never played it before. I seem to recall that, a couple of years ago(?), Hasbro produced a whole slew of oddly D&D-branded editions of classic boardgames, like Clue and Monopoly, so I'm not at all surprised that there'd be a D&D Trivial Pursuit as well – and, unlike the others, it makes some degree of sense, since D&D certainly has a fair share of trivia associated with it.

That said, I was initially reluctant to participate in the game. As long-time readers know, I have a strong aversion to the lifestyle brandification of everything these days, especially hallowed nerd pastimes. On the other hand, it was all in good fun. Curmudgeon I may be, but even I couldn't permit myself to sneer in the corner while everyone else was enjoying themselves. Furthermore, I was pretty sure I could win, since my brain is jampacked with useless information about Dungeons & Dragons. If I couldn't put that information to good use winning a friendly game in a bar on a Tuesday afternoon, what good was it anyway?

I hadn't played Trivial Pursuit in likely decades. I had forgotten just how tedious it is, with its requirement that a piece has to land on one of the special designated spaces before a player can acquire a "wedge" for the category associated with it. This results in nigh endless wandering around the board until you roll the right number. The D&D version mixes this up a little by introducing the use of more dice – d4, d6, d8, d10, and d12 – which allows the player to tailor the range of results and thus (theoretically) make it easier to reach one's desired space on the board. Nevertheless, my friends quickly ruled that a player could get a wedge from any space of the appropriate color. Otherwise, we'd probably have been playing for even longer.

The categories of the trivia were, I think, six in number: history, magic and miscellany, monsters, characters, dungeons and adventures, and cosmology. Like all editions of Trivial Pursuit, they ranged from the truly obscure ("What was the name of the needlepoint company TSR acquired in 1982?") to the blindingly obvious ("What spellcasting class can use create food and drink?"). I naturally did well in the history category, which included lots of questions about the early history of the hobby ("What was the name of Brian Blume's brother?" and "What was the name of the King of the Orcs in the Blackmoor campaign?"). The other categories proved hit or miss for me, since they included an inordinate amount of questions pertaining to 5th Edition – not a shock, I guess, but I know next to nothing about it.

In the end, I did in fact win the game, though it was actually close. I had much more fun than I expected I would and would definitely play it again. In the course of play, I discovered that I know a disturbingly large amount about both the Forgotten Realms and Dragonlance settings. Conversely, I don't know nearly as much about the specifics of magic items and magic spells. I also learned that I should have invested more time in my youth reading D&D novels, because many of the questions in the "characters" category seemed to involve characters who appeared in them. 

As I get older and my memory becomes less acute, I am regularly amazed – disappointed? – by how much I can still remember about trivial things like D&D. For example, I am still capable of recognizing an episode of the original Star Trek series after seeing only its first minute or so, but I sometimes struggle to recall why I've entered a room. It's maddening the way memory works and I imagine it will only get more maddening as my senescence creeps ever closer. Fortunately for me, games like the D&D edition of Trivial Pursuit exist, so I can feel, if only for a little while, that I hadn't wasted my youth by learning all this stuff.