I'd hoped to have something Halloween-y to post, but the only scare you get today is my face, when Marc Miller, creator of Traveller, kindly consented to having his photo take with me at Gamehole Con earlier this month.
As an avowed enjoyer of the face of the Great Green Devil, I had to pick up this magnet a vendor was offering for sale at Gamehole Con. It now graces my refrigerator, alongside a couple of other RPG-related magnets. I wish I could recall the name of the vendor, because he was selling a lot of really great little souvenirs and tchotchkes like this one.
In any case, I'm still playing catch-up after my travels and, since I'm heading off to CleriCon this weekend – yes, another convention, but a local one this time – I've still got a lot of non-bloggy work on my plate. With luck, regular service will resume next week. Thanks for your patience.
I was very blessed to have shared a hotel room with one of the players of my Barrett's Raiders campaign. Though we’ve known each other for years, our friendship had only existed in the digital realm until last year’s Gamehole Con, when we finally met in person. Even after all these years of online gaming, there’s something quietly profound about that first handshake and the realization that someone you’ve shared countless imaginary worlds with actually exists in the same one as you. Perhaps it’s my age showing, but I still place great value on the tangible and largely unmediated experiences.
Online friendships are real. I have many that I treasure deeply, but there’s a particular joy in crossing that invisible line between the virtual and the physical. Sharing a meal, talking late into the night, comparing notes on games and life are all things that remind me why conventions like Gamehole Con matter. They’re not just about dice and character sheets; they’re about connection, which grounds this strange hobby of ours in real human company.
What makes this even more remarkable is that so many of the hobby’s “celebrities” (for lack of a better word) are, themselves, fans. I can’t tell you how many times, while sitting down to talk with someone well-known in the hobby, he told me how much he enjoyed Grognardia and how glad he was that I’d returned to blogging. A few times, I was even introduced to others as “the guy who writes Grognardia” and the look of recognition that followed was both humbling and gratifying. I was particularly tickled to discover that Ed Greenwood had bought all thirteen issues of my Tékumel ’zine, The Excellent Travelling Volume, because he’s a fan of the setting. I’ve met Ed several times before, but even so, that revelation surprised me.
My point here isn’t to brag (much) but to emphasize something I think is special about our hobby. There’s no vast gulf separating creators from players. In most cases, they’re the same people, sitting across the same tables, rolling the same dice, and dreaming the same dreams. That shared enthusiasm, that sense that we’re all participants in something communal and ongoing, is what gives tabletop gaming its continued vitality, even after half a century.
I am now safely back in my northern lair after spending the last five days at Gamehole Con in lovely Madison, Wisconsin. I have a lot to say about it and other topics, but that will have to wait until after I have dug myself out from under all the emails, comments, and other correspondence that has piled up in my absence. In the meantime, enjoy another amusing Tolkien-related comic:
While I still remain an avowed Luddite, I will be bringing a camera with me this year, so I hope to have more photos to share of the con than I did last year. I will still be largely out of contact while I'm in Madison, so there will be no significant posts from me here or on my Patreon or Substack until after I return. Likewise, comment approval will be suspended. With luck, I'll avoid coming down with the dreaded Con Crud as a result of my travels, but I wasn't so lucky last year.
According to Marc, GDW had long wanted to produce a roleplaying game in which the players would take on the roles of active duty military personnel. GDW was, after all, a wargames company first and foremost and many of its employees, including Miller himself, had served in the military, so it seemed like a natural fit. However, there was some concern that playing in a military environment, with a strict hierarchy of ranks and a chain of command, might prove, if not stifling, then at least unduly restrictive to the actions of most players. Anyone who's played RPGs for any period of time knows all too well how much players dislike being told what to do.
That's where the idea of setting the game amidst of World War III came in. The designers reckoned that, in such a tumultuous environment, some of the normal strictures of active duty military life could be plausibly loosened, thereby affording players a bit more freedom of action than they might otherwise be given in the armed services. To ensure this further, GDW contrived the starting situation of the game so that the player characters were survivors of a larger unit that had been defeated and its forces scattered to the four winds. Trapped behind enemy lines and severed from both their supply lines and superiors, they'd have no choice but to make decisions for themselves.
Furthermore, Marc explained that he (and, I assume, many of the other designers at GDW) felt that chaos made for a better gaming environment than did order. His reasoning is pretty straightforward. In periods of chaos, there's much greater scope for individual action and fewer limitations on what the characters can and cannot do. That's not to say there are none, only that there are fewer, which they expected players would find liberating. This perspective runs parallel to what he said above about the restrictiveness of an active duty military. GDW felt that the chaos of the Cold War gone hot was a great way to have their cake and eat it too: military roleplaying but freed of many of its limitations.
In principle, this line of thinking is sound. According to Marc, though, most Twilight: 2000 campaigns of which GDW became aware were very focused on order. Players and referees alike wanted to get the characters away from enemy lines so that they could rejoin NATO forces. Likewise, when characters were unable to do that, they would nevertheless find ways to bring about law and order in whatever locale they found themselves. Despite the game's reputation as being some post-apocalyptic power trip in which might makes right, that's not what GDW found that most people were interested in. Instead, they were interested in re-establishing order and fighting against chaos.
Marc explained that this was true no matter where the campaign was set, whether Poland or the United States. GDW kept doing its best to make the world of Twilight: 2000 chaotic – dividing the USA into three feuding factions, for example – but it didn't work out quite as they had hoped. Players wanted to rebuild and reunite the country, not war over its ashes. This was unexpected, since the whole idea behind T2K was giving players the opportunity to play in a world without central authority of any kind, giving them the ability to forge their own paths. Instead, the players discovered they wanted, if not the opposite of that, something that ran along a very different track.
Even more interesting is that Marc explained this pattern happened again and again in GDW's RPG products. MegaTraveller, for example, took place during an interstellar civil war/succession crisis in the Third Imperium. Shattering the Imperium was intended to open up more options for players, but most players reacted negatively to it, preferring the stable setting of classic Traveller (which, not coincidentally, I am sure, is when Mongoose's edition of the game is set). The same was true with MegaTraveller's follow-up, Traveller: The New Era (set during a dark age following the collapse of the Imperium entirely). It was also true with "the Game," the grand wargame/simulation run to establish the post-Twilight: 2000 future history background for 2300 AD. GDW found that players of "the Game" very quickly worked to put the world in some semblance of order rather than reveling in chaos.
I'm not entirely sure what to make of all this, except to say that I found it incredibly fascinating to hear from Marc Miller. I think most of us who've played RPGs for any length of time would intuitively agree with the assumption that players prefer, even love, chaos and yet Marc said GDW's experience was otherwise. He said that players actually preferred order and would work toward that end when presented with a chaotic situation. Is that true? I'll have to reflect a bit on my own recent gaming experiences before I can provide an answer and, even then, they'll just be anecdotes. What do you think? If you could share your experiences relating to this question in the comments, I'd be very interested in reading them.
When I attended Gamehole Con this year, I decided I wouldn't referee any games, but would instead play in several. I did this for a couple of reasons. First, I'm usually the referee, so having the opportunity to play is a treat (even though I'm actually quite bad at it). Second, I intend to run some sessions at future Gamehole Cons – and perhaps some other cons, too, if I can decide on others to attend – and wanted to do some "field research" on what these games are typically like. Though I'm a pretty experienced and, if my players are to be believed, good referee, I'm nevertheless quite self-conscious about my abilities. Seeing how others handle the referee's duties at a con thus provided me with some very useful information.
The very first game I played at the con was Hyperborea. I've been a fan of the game since its original edition, released more than a decade ago. It's a delightfully game, inspired by the greats of pulp fantasy, like Howard, Lovecraft, and Smith. Rules-wise, it's pretty much a rationalized and house ruled version of AD&D and, like AD&D, Hyperborea is baroque and idiosyncratic. To tell the truth, that's a big part of why I like the game so much. I appreciate it when a designer imbues his game with himself – his likes and dislikes, his philosophy and worldview – that's just what Jeff Talanian did with Hyperborea. That's a welcome break from recent attempts to sand down the rough edges of our popular culture to make it appeal to everyone, in the process making it appeal to no one in particular.
Like most con games, this one had a four-hour time slot and featured six players. Entitled "A Tale of Crows and Shadow," it was, so far as I know, an original adventure by our referee. Before we began, he passed out a stack of pregenerated characters from which to choose. I selected a warlock – a fighter/magic-user, more or less – named Amalaric the Ill-Tempered. After everyone had chosen their characters, the referee then asked if we all had dice. Embarrassingly, I did not. I was sitting next to the referee and, as I explained that I had no dice, he turned, looked at me, and asked, "Are you sure you're in the right place?" He meant it humorously, of course, but I can't deny feeling a little sheepish at his words. Fortunately, a player seated across from me tossed me a bag of dice and told me to keep them. "I always carry extras for times like this."
The adventure began with all of the characters awakening aboard a slave galley headed out to sea. Our food and drink had been drugged after a night's debauchery in the metropolis of Khromarium. Below decks and chained to our oars, we first had to find a way to escape. The first half of the scenario involved us plotting to free ourselves and then take control of the vessel. After many extraordinary feats of Strength (and Dexterity) and much combat, we were successful. Now in command of the ship, we had to pilot it back to land without quite knowing where we were. Once there, we trekked through the wilderness at night, while someone (or something) was following us. Eventually, we discovered that our stalker was a vampire – and a child vampire at that. Dealing with her was creepy, unnerving, and surprisingly difficult, but we eventually prevailed.
I had a lot of fun playing this adventure, which felt very picaresque in its structure. This wasn't a scenario in which everything that happened in it was directly connected. Instead, one thing happened after another, each being a kind of mini-scenario of its own. It was a bit like a series of pulp fantasy vignettes, all sharing the same cast of characters, but not having any overarching plot or theme. I was quite fine with that. Not only did it suit Hyperborea, but it also gave the session a "light" feeling. We weren't following some grand storyline or trying to achieve anything beyond saving our skins and escaping the latest danger we stumbled upon.
Not being a veteran of con games, I'm not sure how typical my experience was. One of the most notable things about it, to my mind anyway, is that the players were frequently willing to take chances on harebrained schemes and reckless gambits. That might be a function of the fact that everyone knew this was a one-shot. Our natural self-preservation instincts were blunted. If our character died while trying to bowl over a group of guards, Captain Kirk style, so what? We were having good, pulpy fun and that's all that mattered. As I think about the possibility running my own games at a future con, I'll bear this in mind. I think a good convention adventure is probably its own thing, distinct from the kind of adventure that works well in a campaign situation.
Anyway, Hyperborea's a fun game. I should play it more (and so should you).
To show how thoroughly my brain has been colonized by roleplaying games, my immediate thought, upon seeing the lights dimmed, was of Traveller. In the Third Imperium setting, there's a practice known as jump dimming. What happens is that a pilot dims the interior and exterior lights of his starship for about two minutes before entering jumpspace. During the early days of jump travel, a starship needed every joule of energy to power its computers and jump drives in order to create a stable jump field. That's no longer the case – if it ever was, since it's considered a superstition within the setting – but the practice persists among Vilani pilots, even thousands of years later.
I always thought it was a cool bit of setting detail, the kind of thing that helps bring the Third Imperium alive and distinguishes it from other science fiction settings. I especially liked it because it's described as being a superstition and that's the kind of thing that should exist, even in a sci-fi setting, and yet I rarerly see such things. Instead, most science fiction settings are rather dull and antiseptic, completely ignoring the way that human beings (and, presumably, other intelligent species) attempt to make sense of the universe by imposing on it an order and rationality that isn't always in evidence (and may indeed not even exist). So, score another one for Traveller.
Except that jump dimming is a contrivance created for an adventure. Back in 1986, in the waning days of classic Traveller, before the publication of MegaTraveller, there was a licensed Traveller fanzine called The Travellers' Digest – more on that later this week – that I started reading in high school. Issue #4 includes an adventure called "The Gold of Zurrian" that take place entirely aboard a starship. During the two-minute period when the ship's lights are dimmed in preparation for jump, one of the passengers aboard is murdered. Solving her murder while in jumpspace forms the bulk of the scenario and the superstition of jump dimming was invented solely to provide cover for the murderer to do his dirty work.
The fact that jump dimming didn't exist prior to the publication of issue #4 of The Travellers' Digest does nothing to lessen my appreciation for this bit of worldbuilding. Indeed, I actually think that knowing its origins increases my appreciation for it. The writers at Digest Group Publications succeeded in creating something that felt completely plausible within the context of the Third Imperium setting, even though its ultimate origin was utilitarian: how to have a murder take place aboard a starship without being seen. In the years since, jump dimming has become an accepted, if minor, part of the Third Imperium setting. I doubt many players even know its origins or care.
I won't go so far as to say that something like jump dimming could only have come about in a roleplaying game, but I do think that RPGs frequently punch well above their weight when it comes to good ideas like this. This is especially true in games that are played regularly. Referees need to create all sorts of things in response to player actions or to set things up for a particular kind of in-game situation. I know I've done it countless times and I doubt I'm alone in this regard. To that end, if you've come up with something through play that then "ascended" to become a fixture of a game setting, I'd love to know about it in the comments.
| L to R: Mike Mearls, Jeff Grubb, Ed Greenwood, Steve Winter, David Cook |
For the purposes of this post, I don't have a lot to say about the scenario itself, since it's old and probably quite well-known to most readers of this blog. Instead, what most interests me and that I think is most worthy of attention is the way Mr Hammack ran it at the table during the con. Bear in mind that Hammack was employed by TSR Hobbies between 1978 and 1982, where he worked as a writer, designer, and editor, primarily on the AD&D. I mention this to provide some context to what follows.
The module is designed for five pre-generated characters, all human – a fighter, a cleric, a magic-user, a thief, and a monk. I played the cleric, Zinethar the Wise, who was 9th level and, oddly, had slightly more hit points than the fighter. The module assumes that all the characters with the exception of the monk are condemned criminals who are offered the opportunity to escape imprisonment by undertaking a dangerous mission for the Duke of Urnst (in the World of Greyhawk), namely, the recovery of the Soul Gem from the titular Ghost Tower. I knew none of the other four players prior to play, so we had to learn to work together to succeed.
Mr Hammack is an older gentleman. I have no idea his actual age, but I suspect he's probably in his late 60s or early 70s at least. Despite this, his mind is very sharp, especially when it comes to the AD&D rules. More than once during the four hours we were at his table, a player asked a question about how, say, a spell functioned. Before someone could find the appropriate page in the Players Handbook, Hammack recalled the relevant information – and correctly. After a while, we learned to trust his memory over our ability to flip pages quickly. I bring all this up, because it supports my long-held contention that hobbies like roleplaying are good for the health of your brain.
Given how well he remembered the rules of AD&D, another question that came up was how strict Mr Hammack would be in applying them. He chuckled and said that he was generally quite flexible about doing so, with a couple of exceptions. Going back to spells, Hammack explained that he is often loose with spell durations but he was more rigid about areas of effect. Likewise, he noted that he was loose with encumbrance, unless he felt a player was trying to take advantage of a situation. He then told a terrific story about how he and other AD&D players of his acquaintance would use 3×5 index cards for character sheets, with stats being written on the front and equipment on the back. Anything you could fit on the back of an index card – in legible writing – would probably not bring encumbrance penalties into effect.
Mr Hammack's overall approach to rules was governed by common sense. He clearly knew the rules and was prepared to apply them when he felt it necessary or appropriate, but he never felt bound by them. Indeed, he could be talked out of applying them by a good argument from a player, as he was on at least one occasion. At the same time, Hammack was also quite clear that his decision was final. Once he'd made a decision and considered any input from the players, there was no further arguing of the point. That he was fair and judicious probably explains why no one argued with his final decisions – that we were all middle-aged men, not children probably helped, too. I found the whole experience quite refreshing, to be honest.
I should note that, despite his extensive knowledge of AD&D rules, Mr Hammack was not above introducing house rules into play. For example, there were many occasions when he asked us to roll under a character's ability score to determine if our characters succeeded at some action or other. Likewise, he made use of a simple critical hit/fumble mechanic that's definitely not something Gary Gygax would ever have approved of. The mechanic worked fine in play and even contributed to a number of fun moments, which was exactly what we all hoped for.
In sum, I had a great time at Allen Hammack's table. He was a charming, knowledgeable, and imaginative Dungeon Master and he made me appreciate how good a module The Ghost Tower of Inverness actually is. I consider myself very lucky to have played with him at Gamehole Con this year.
I know it's common for people to joke that they're technophobes, but I'm the real deal. I'm not merely a slow adopter of technology; I'm actively hostile towards many forms of tech, especially those whose function intrudes upon our everyday lives. Consequently, I do not now nor have I ever owned a mobile phone of any kind, including a smart phone, which I unironically believe is one of the most damnable pieces of technology man has ever conceived.
Once I left my home last week for Gamehole Con in Madison, Wisconsin, I was effectively incommunicado. Without a phone, no one, not even my family, could reach me. I made prior arrangements with friends to meet me at the airport. However, if my flight were delayed or, as it turned out, arrived twenty minutes early, there was no way to inform them of this fact. The likelihood that there'd be some sort of schedule change either going to or coming back from the convention were high, since I had connecting flights both ways. That I encountered no airline problems was something of a minor miracle.
Of course, until about a quarter-century ago, most people didn't own mobile phones at all and they nevertheless traveled across the globe. Our current era of interconnectedness and instant availability is an aberration in historical terms, but most of us have become intensely accustomed to it, to the point that we can't even imagine anything different than our present circumstances. I know that, before the con, at least a couple of acquaintances asked me to hit them up on Discord when I arrived, so we could coordinate a time and a place to meet. Lacking the means to do that, we had to make do with more primitive means of meeting up. Fortunately, Gamehole Con is small enough that finding someone isn't that hard, if you're sufficiently motivated.
Of course, my friends all have smart phones, so I could simply borrow theirs to quickly check my email or Discord messages. In fact, I tried to do so. I say "tried," because, when I made the attempt, Discord noticed I was doing so from a location different from my usual one. To log in, I'd need to enter a code sent to my email address to confirm my identity. Alas, getting into my email proved similarly difficult, as Gmail, too, recognized I was not in my usual location and would only allow me to use it if I sent it a code that it had sent to my backup email address. Guess what happened next? That's right: an endless circle of dual factor authentication I could not circumvent by any means.
Similarly, when I checked in at the con to collect my badge, I expected I'd also be given physical tickets for my various events, as I had in the past. Nope! I'm not sure when Gamehole Con transitioned to virtual tickets – it must have been sometime after 2018, when I last attended – but, whenever it was, I was now expected to make use of a smart phone to demonstrate my having paid and signed up for my events. I was able to rectify this with the organizers, who took pity upon me and printed out some tickets for me to carry around. However, the fact remains that Gamehole Con, like almost everything these days, simply takes it for granted that I must, of course, have a smart phone.
What's fascinating is that nearly everyone I encountered who learned of my lack of a phone expressed wistful admiration of me. "I wish I could do that!" or some variation of it were common statements. And the truth is that there are many benefits to not having a phone, especially at a convention. For instance, I was never once distracted by calls or notifications, as were too many people, even during games. I was free to focus on the matter at hand. When I was distracted, it was by something happening nearby in the real world, like the hoots and hollers of a nearby table, as a player rolled well (or badly) or as a man dressed as an orc and carrying a large ax walked by. I got to experience Gamehole Con unfiltered, unmediated by anything but my own senses. It was wonderful.
That's why I went to the convention, after all: to be present. I don't want to sound like some New Age guru spouting off platitudes about mindfulness, but I do think we too often miss out on valuable interactions and experiences because we're distracted by the ever-present allure of technology. The number of people I saw at the con sitting down and scrolling through their social media accounts was larger than I'd have liked it to have been (though far less than what I saw in airports or on planes – yikes!). I was in a unique position not to have the option to do this. I had no choice but to be present and aware of everything that was happening around me – and I believe I had a better time because of it.
Additionally, I was completely cut off from the news, whether local, national, international, or even just the news of our shared hobby. I fight against the notion that ignorance is bliss, but I can't that having no knowledge of what was going on in the world beyond what I could see and hear right in front me was a welcome respite, one that enabled me to enjoy myself more fully than I might otherwise have. I was at Gamehole Con to play some RPGs and hang out with friends, both old and new. Focusing on anything else would have been a distraction. Why would I want that?
As I've explained before, I first attended Gamehole Con in 2017 – my first convention since GenCon 2001 (unless one counts OSRCon). I enjoyed the experience enough to go back in 2018. I intended to do so again in 2019 until a run-in with a car at a crosswalk interceded. I also intended to return in 2020, but Fate once more prevented my doing so. By 2021, my nascent habit of attending GHC had been broken and I didn't seriously consider going once more until this year, thanks in no small part to the stated intention of a couple players in my Twilight: 2000 campaign to do so.
That was the push I needed and I am grateful for it, because I had a blast at the con. Perhaps my favorite part was seeing people in the flesh. Though I've refereed the House of Worms campaign for nine and a half years now, I've met fewer than half of my players in person. Don't misunderstand me: I consider all my online players my friends and am deeply grateful for them and the time they spend with me, but hanging out and gaming at the same table together just feels right and good in ways that simply can't be replicated in a virtual space. Gamehole Con demonstrated this truth again and again.
Among the people I got to hang out and/or roll some dice with whose names you might recognize were:
I am now safely returned to my lair, after spending a delightful five days in Madison, Wisconsin at Gamehole Con. I have a lot to share about my time there and the many fellow gamers, both well-known and otherwise, whom I met. Regular posting will resume later today or, more likely, tomorrow, as I'm still recuperating from my travels.