Performance Anxiety

Late last summer, I first broached the idea of my House of Worms Empire of the Petal Throne campaign finally ending. As regular readers know, House of Worms is the longest campaign I’ve ever run with a stable group of players. Week after week, year after year, we have returned to Tékumel, exploring its labyrinthine politics, alien gods, and decaying glories together. It’s been a singular experience, one I never quite expected to last this long when we first began playing more than a decade ago.

In fact, when we started House of Worms, I had no expectation that it'd last more than maybe a few months. At the time, I hadn't played in the world of Tékumel in almost ten years and, even then, it was for only a brief period, so I assumed something similar would happen. This time, though, something clicked and did so almost immediately. The characters took on lives of their own. The setting opened up like a great unfolding map, rich with possibilities. The players responded with curiosity and commitment – and so did I. Before long, we had a real campaign and that campaign became a weekly tradition, a touchstone not just for our hobby lives but also for our friendships.

I’m proud of what we have accomplished. The characters evolved from unknown newcomers to key players on the imperial stage. Locations, events, and characters that began as vague sketches soon crystallized into defining elements of not just of the campaign but our conception of what Tékumel is like as a setting. Choices had consequences. Deaths mattered (often in unexpected ways). Victories felt earned. What began as a yet another attempt to play an old school roleplaying game few remembered soon became something more: a collaborative, shared history of the sort that I think is genuinely unique to this hobby of ours.

Still, it’s time. The campaign started to lose a lot of momentum in 2024 and we all recognized this. The characters had been through a lot during the previous nine years of play and, while there were still lots of places they could go, we'd nevertheless reached a point that felt like some kind of ending was in sight. Certainly, we could play on – as a setting, Tékumel is immense and filled with possibilities – but to do so would feel like lingering after the curtain has fallen. Better, we decided, to end well than to drag things out past their prime. That knowledge doesn’t make it any easier, though. There’s a sadness in ending a campaign of such longevity. 

There's also satisfaction and pride and lots of other positive feelings too. The House of Worms campaign shouldn't be mourned but celebrated. Likewise, my players are very loyal; they've asked me to start a new campaign when we finally conclude our current one. They want something fresh but with the same spirit of discovery, depth, and continuity that defined House of Worms. Their enthusiasm is heartening. It means I did something right. It means the game mattered, which makes me very happy. I often think we don't recognize just how meaningful and important a good RPG campaign can be to the people who participate in it.

So, even as things wind down, I am very pleased by what we've accomplished – but I'm also more than a little anxious about the future.

The truth is I’ve launched many campaigns over the years. Most of them didn't last. Some sputtered out after only a handful of sessions. Others lasted a respectable amount of time but never achieved the same alchemy as House of Worms. That’s the way of things. Long-running, deeply satisfying campaigns are rare. They are accidents of chemistry, timing, and luck as much as planning and design. You can’t force them into being, no matter how hard you try to do so. This is one of the more frustrating aspects of roleplaying as a hobby: there are no guarantees that you'll actually enjoy what you're playing, especially not over the long term.

Part of the challenge is structural. Life intrudes. Schedules shift. Interests drift. Players move on. Sustaining any long-term creative endeavor, especially one that depends on the consistent involvement of several adults with busy lives, is very hard. Sustaining it for ten years is, frankly, a minor miracle and, like all miracles, it’s not one you can replicate on command.

There’s another kind of challenge, too: the weight of comparison. After something as long-lived and beloved as House of Worms, anything new is likely to feel slight by contrast. Early sessions will lack the depth of history. New characters will feel unformed. The setting will feel empty until it is slowly filled in over the course of weeks and months. It’s hard not to wonder then: will this new campaign, whatever it winds up being, catch fire the same way? Will it grow into something fun and meaningful or will it fall apart before it ever finds its legs?

I simply don't know and that's what makes all of this so nerve-wracking. I’m not afraid to admit that I feel the pressure of trying to follow up what might well be the best campaign I’ve ever run, possibly ever will run. House of Worms was a kind of creative lightning strike, the sort of thing that comes together once in a lifetime if you're lucky. It had the right players, the right setting, the right spark. Trying to recreate that, consciously or not, feels daunting, even a little foolish. What if the next campaign just doesn't measure up? What if it fizzles out early? What if I no longer have whatever intangible thing it was that made House of Worms work?

These are the questions that I keep pondering as I consider what comes next. They're not unfamiliar questions – as I said, I’ve had plenty of campaigns fail before – but this time they sting a little more. They sting because I know what's possible. I’ve seen the metaphorical mountaintop. I’ve spent ten years there. Coming back down, trying to find a new path, even with the same companions, feels uncertain in a way that’s hard to shake.

Yet, for all that, I’m still going to try. What else can I do? The only way to discover whether something can grow is to plant the seed and nurture it. Even the longest, most memorable campaigns begin in uncertainty. House of Worms started without a plan, without expectations, with nothing more than a handful of characters, a legendary setting, and a group of friends willing to see what might happen.

That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts.

So, I will gather my notes, pull some books off the shelf, and call my players to the table once again. We’ll roll some dice, sketch out some half-formed ideas, and take that first step into whatever new world awaits us. Maybe it will fall apart. Maybe it will thrive. I can’t know – not yet anyway. What I do know is that the only way to find out is to begin.

Maybe, one day, I’ll look back on what comes next and be just as proud.

Retrospective: Nephilim

I think anyone who's been deeply involved in the hobby of roleplaying games for any length of time will eventually come across a game with which they become obsessed – not necessarily because they actually play it but because the game's concept or presentation happen to strike an unexpected chord with him. Over the decades since I was initiated into this hobby, I've had several such games. The one I want to talk about in this post continues to be an object of fascination for me more than 30 years after its publication, both for its virtues and its flaws. It's a game that I think could have been bigger and more successful than it was, if only it hadn't been produced by Chaosium in the mid-90s, a time of particular turmoil for the venerable California game company.

The English version of Nephilim – I have never seen any of the French editions – appeared on the scene in 1994. Though sometimes compared (favorably or otherwise) to White Wolf's "World of Darkness" games for its superficial similarity, Nephilim was in fact distinct because of its deep immersion in real world occultism, esotericism, and philosophy. This fact probably played a role in its limited impact on the wider RPG scene at the time. At best, Nephilim was, no pun intended, a cult classic, admired by some for its unique vision and polarizing to others due to its complexity and mysticism. With the benefit of hindsight, Nephilim appears to be a game that feels both ahead of and constrained by its time, with an ambitious yet flawed attempt to merge the metaphysical with the game mechanical.

Nephilim places the players in the roles of titular Nephilim, powerful elemental spirits who have been reincarnating through human bodies for millennia. These beings seek enlightenment and ultimate mastery over magic, all while hiding from secret societies such as the Templars and other forces bent on suppressing their supernatural influence. The game draws heavily from esoteric traditions, like alchemy, the Kabbalah, astrology, and the Tarot, in order to create a setting that’s more intellectual than visceral. The world of Nephilim isn’t about heroics or adventure in the traditional sense, but about the slow, unfolding journey of self-discovery, spiritual awakening, and the management of hidden knowledge.

The beauty of this game lies in its depth. The Nephilim characters are not ordinary adventurers but beings of great power, constantly at odds with the limitations of human existence. Reincarnation plays a central role: your character may have lived many lives, across different times and places, and will continue to do so for eternity. This concept of eternal recurrence provides a wealth of roleplaying opportunities, as players are tasked with piecing together fragmented memories and uncovering truths hidden in past lives. This frame invites a certain kind of player, one interested in exploring questions about identity, morality, and immortality against the backdrop of occult mysticism.

However, this central conceit is also a double-edged sword. The complex background of the game, while rich, can feel inaccessible to players unfamiliar with occultism or those simply hoping for a more traditional fantasy adventure. Nephilim doesn’t offer the more traditional gratifications of slaying monsters and looting treasure; it instead asks players to navigate a web of arcane lore and hidden agendas, which can be overwhelming or unsatisfying for those unprepared for its slow pace.

The game’s mechanics are built around the Basic Role-Playing system, which was a wise choice, because it was familiar to fans of Call of Cthulhu and RuneQuest, both of whom might well be interested in the subject matter of Nephilim. However, the game doesn’t fully embrace the simplicity of BRP. Instead, it introduces several layers of complexity with its systems for magic, past lives, and the metaphysical forces known as Ka.

The Ka system is central to the game, representing the elemental forces that shape each Nephilim. It’s a fascinating concept that ties into character development and the use of magic, but it can also become a burden to manage. Characters must balance their elemental affinities, harnessing them to gain power or enlightenment, but doing so requires a deep understanding of the system. The Ka system, while thematically rich, often feels clunky and opaque, especially for players who are more accustomed to streamlined mechanics.

The magic system is similarly intricate. Divided into a series of occult sciences – alchemy, astrology, summoning, and more – each one presents unique rules, rituals, and challenges. While these magical systems offer a degree of customization, they can quickly overwhelm players. The complexity isn’t inherently a problem, but the lack of clear guidance on how to use these systems often leaves players floundering. Nephilim can thus feel like a game in search of a user manual, where the richness of its background material is undermined by the difficulty of navigating its rules.

Further, the game's character creation is a daunting process, involving past lives, elemental alignments, and a variety of other factors that require significant attention to detail. While this deep character customization can be incredibly rewarding for dedicated players, it can also be a barrier to entry. Newcomers may find themselves lost in the weeds of the system before even getting to the heart of the game.

One of Nephilim's strongest aspects is its presentation. The art and layout, while not groundbreaking by modern standards, exude a gothic, surreal quality that perfectly complements the game’s mystical themes. The illustrations are dark, moody, and evocative, which nicely complements the atmosphere of the game, even if they occasionally obscure the clarity of the text.

At the same time, Nephilim's presentation does suffer from the typical issues found in many early '90s RPGs, such as dense blocks of text, inconsistent layout, and a tendency to overload players with information without clear guidance. The mysticism that pervades the game is often reflected in the game’s writing style, which can occasionally veer toward the impenetrable. This is a game that assumes players are already familiar with esoteric traditions and it doesn’t always make the effort to ease new players into its complex world.

At its best, Nephilim offered a unique approach to supernatural-themed RPGs, one that blended philosophy, magic, and exploration in a way that was unusual at the time (and probably still is). The game's background is rich with possibility and its mechanics take a "contemplative" approach to character growth and development. For those willing to put in the effort to understand the system and immerse themselves in the game’s themes, Nephilim could offer a truly unique roleplaying experience.

Unfortunately, I suspect that rarely happened. Nephilim has a lot of flaws. The complexity of its rules and the obscure nature of its background material can, as I said, be off-putting for many players. Its occult focus, while a selling point for some, may feel inaccessible or even pretentious to others. The game is undoubtedly aimed at a niche audience – players willing to invest time in deciphering its symbolism and mastering its systems – which no doubt played a role in its inability to achieve broader appeal.

If Nephilim had received better and more consistent support from Chaosium, or perhaps a streamlined edition, it might have had a much greater impact on the RPG world. Instead, it remains a fascinatingly flaw relic of the 1990s. Nevertheless, I continue to be intrigued by it and hope that, one day, I might have the chance to do something with it. It's definitely a contender for the RPG with which I'd most love to referee a long campaign, even if the odds of that are unlikely. 

REVIEW: Dragonbane

Last month, I mentioned that, because of the extended absence of a player in my ongoing Dolmenwood campaign, one of the other players offered to run a short adventure using Free League's Dragonbane rules. Despite my own deficiencies as a player, I welcomed this, both as a nice break from my own weekly refereeing duties and because I'd actually wanted to give Dragonbane a proper playtest. I've had a copy of the game for about two years and it wasn't until now that an opportunity to actually make use of it arose.

We concluded our playtest earlier this week and, as I expected I would, I had a great time. Originally, my intention was to write a short follow-up to the post linked above, in which I offered some further thoughts about the game. However, as I did so, I soon realized that my “short follow-up” was rapidly turning into something closer to full-on review, The result is what you're reading now, though be warned that this will be a somewhat idiosyncratic review based largely on my own interests rather a more "general" assessment of the game.

Case in point: I come at Dragonbane from the perspective of someone who's played a lot of Dungeons & Dragons over the decades. And while it's never been my system of choice, I also have a deep respect for Chaosium’s Basic Role-Playing, upon which Dragonbane's Swedish-language predecessor, Drakar och Demoner, was based. Consequently, I approached Dragonbane with a great deal of curiosity. I was eager to see how it would blend its BRP heritage with a more streamlined framework. After several sessions, I can confidently say Dragonbane delivers a fun, engaging experience that bridges the gap between D&D’s broad fantasy and BRP’s more grounded, skill-driven mechanics.

As I said, Dragonbane is built on the bones of Basic Role-Playing, a system known for its granular, skill-based mechanics. Free League, however, has distilled this foundation into something far lighter and more approachable, swapping BRP’s percentile dice for a d20-based system that might feel more familiar to D&D players. Character creation is quick: choose a kin (human, elf, dwarf, or even anthropomorphic creatures like wolfkin or mallard), a profession (knight, mage, artisan, etc.), and assign points to skills. Unlike the sometimes-fiddly process of building a Call of Cthulhu or RuneQuest character, Dragonbane keeps things brisk, almost rivaling old-school D&D’s straightforwardness even while retaining BRP’s emphasis on skills over character classes.

The core mechanic – roll a d20 under your skill or attribute score – will probably feel like second nature to BRP veterans, but the system’s boons and banes (the advantage/disadvantage mechanic that seems to be in every RPG these days) simplify modifiers in a way that keeps play moving. Opposed rolls and critical successes/failures add further depth without being overwhelming. For a D&D player, the shift from class-and-level progression to skill-based improvement is definitely a change. Even so, Dragonbane never feels too alien, aided not just by its use of d20 rolls but also its reliance on familiar fantasy archetypes (knights, rogues, mages, etc.).

One of Dragonbane’s most distinctive mechanical features is its use of willpower points. These function as a limited but flexible resource that can be spent to fuel both heroic abilities and spells or to reroll a failed skill check. I liked how this gave players a choice during play: burn a willpower point now to avoid a blunder or save it for a special combat move or spell later. It adds a welcome layer of resource management without being overly complex. 

Dragonbane thus feels both flexible and grounded. It lacks the sprawling feat trees or subclass options of, say, WotC-era Dungeons & Dragons, but compensates with a system that rewards player ingenuity. For some BRP fans, it's possible the game might seem too pared down. Where are the hit locations or complex magic systems of RuneQuest? But, for someone like me, more accustomed to D&D’s approach to these things, the streamlined rules felt right, emphasizing speed of play over simulationist detail.

As I noted in my earlier post, combat is where Dragonbane really shines and, as someone who often finds RPG combat a functional but unexciting necessity, I was glad of it. The system strikes a nice balance between simplicity and tactical depth, offering a dynamic experience that rivals D&D’s ease of use while avoiding the slog of overly complex BRP combat.

Each round, players draw initiative cards (reshuffled every round for unpredictability) and can move and act, with heroic abilities or even weapon choices allowing for creative flourishes. The card-based initiative is very simple and straightforward. Players can trade initiative or act out of turn in certain situations, which I found helps to keep everyone engaged. Combat maneuvers like disarming, grappling, or shoving provide further tactical options without requiring constant reference to the rulebook. Mechanics like morale checks and weapon durability add yet more stakes and flavor. For example, a critical hit includes the possibility of increased damage, ignoring armor, or gaining an additional attack.

Another feature I appreciated is the way Dragonbane distinguishes between monsters and NPCs. While NPCs use the same mechanics as player characters, monsters do not roll to attack. Instead, they act according to randomly determined behavior tables, intended to simplify referee workload and to reinforce the idea that monsters are unpredictable forces of nature. It’s an interesting design choice, but I'm not yet certain whether it works as well as intended. I'd need to play more to see how well it holds up to repeated use.

Compared to D&D and its descendants, where combat can feel like a regular cycle of attack rolls and spell slots, Dragonbane combat feels more unpredictable. Hit point totals are fairly low, which keeps fights brisk and the risk of injury or equipment failure makes every combat potentially deadly. BRP players will recognize the system’s DNA, but Dragonbane trims the fat, avoiding much of the bookkeeping that can bog down RuneQuest battles. The result is a combat system that’s both approachable and exciting, encouraging clever play without relying on too many subsystems or edge cases.

Dragonbane doesn’t come with a very detailed campaign setting of its own. Instead, its implied setting is gritty but evocative and seemed to me to take some inspiration from fairy tales (an impression born no doubt of its artwork, done by Johan Egerkrans, who also provided illustrations for the explicitly fairy tale-inspired Vaesen). The profession options suggest a world where heroism is hard-won, not guaranteed. Magic is potent but rare and monsters feel dangerous. This tone aligns more, I think, with games like RuneQuest than Dungeons & Dragons as it's often played, though the game seems flexible enough to handle varying degrees of character skill and power.

Free League’s production quality is, as usual, stellar. The rulebook included with the boxed set is relatively concise (112 pages) yet comprehensive. The set also includes dice, cards, and a second, 116-page book containing eleven sample adventures that can be strung together to form a campaign, making it a complete package for new players. Compared to a lot of RPGs these days, Dragonbane feels leaner and more focused, while still offering enough material to fuel a campaign. BRP fans accustomed to Chaosium’s dense rulebooks might find Dragonbane’s comparative brevity a relief.

In the end, I came away from our Dragonbane playtest impressed, not just by the mechanics, but by how much fun I had. It reminded me that a well-designed game doesn't need to be complex to offer meaningful choices and satisfying play. As someone who usually sits behind the referee’s screen, it was a pleasure to be a player again, especially in a system that hit such a sweet spot between familiarity and innovation. I’m glad I finally got to give Dragonbane a try and I hope I have the chance to return to it again in the future.

The First Proclamation of Renewal

By the Will of the Gods and the Right of the Sword, let all subjects of the Petal Throne hear and obey the words of Prince Eselné Tlakotáni,

O citizens of Béy Sü, Jewel of the Empire, Cradle of Dynasties, and Soul of the World:

For centuries we have called ourselves faithful and yet we have failed in our most sacred of duties.  

Ditlána, the Rite of Renewal, commanded by divine law to be undertaken every five hundred years, lies neglected. The gods wait – and we have made them wait too long. The city groans beneath the weight of that delay. Its bones are old. Its heart is still. Its walls are choked with silence and, within that silence, fester rot and blasphemy.

The Temple of Belkhánu, long a sanctuary of Stability and Repose, has become a shadowed fane for something older and far more terrible. There, beneath clouds of incense and threnodies to the honored dead, the foul cult of the One Other has taken root – tended not by outlaws, but by priests masked in reverence and armored in tradition.

Therefore, the Temple of Belkhánu in this city shall be the first to fall. Stone by stone; beam by beam.

Its relics, if true, shall be preserved.

Its servants, if loyal to the gods and the Petal Throne, shall be spared.

Its hidden masters shall be cast down and scattered.

Let this be the first hammer-blow in the long-overdue renewal of Béy Sü.

This is not sacrilege. This is not conquest. This is not vengeance.

This is obedience to the will of the gods and the cycle of centuries.

This is the sword raised to purify.

This is Ditlána.

Let the traitors wail. Let the halls of power tremble if they must – but the city will be reborn.

The Empire will be reborn.

The gods will not be mocked, nor will their patience last forever.

Let the banners fly. Let the fires burn. Let those who love Tsolyánu stand and be counted.

Thus speaks the Sword of Judgment. Thus speaks Eselné.

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "Setting Saintly Standards"

"Setting Saintly Standards" from issue #79 (November 1983) exemplifies two of the worst aspects of D&D: a mania for quantifying everything combined with forgetfulness about the game's origins. Written by Scott Bennie, the article to provide a system "for defining sainthood [and] classifying the precise abilities or capabilities of a saint." Saints, Bennie notes, are mentioned several times in passing in the Dungeon Masters Guide (the Mace of St. Cuthbert being the most notable), but what saints are and what purpose they serve is never explained. Bennie is correct so far as he goes. What he forgets (or is unaware of) is that Gary Gygax provided some good evidence as to the nature of saints back in an issue of The Strategic Review where he talks about alignment. There, saints are exemplars of Lawful Goodness, just as devils are exemplars of Lawful Evilness and demons exemplars of Chaotic Evilness. While AD&D provided lots of information on devils and demons, saints get no similar treatment (neither do "godlings," but no one seems to care about them for some reason).

That's where "Setting Saintly Standards" steps in. Bennie proposes that saints are special servants of the gods who've achieved immortality and some measure of divine power. He makes them on par with Greyhawk's "quasi-deities" like Murlynd or Keoghtom, but explicitly tied to a specific deity, whom they serve and whose cause they promote. The article lays out their spell-like abilities and offers four examples of saints from his own campaign to give the referee some idea of how to create saints of his own. He likewise suggests that some saints -- "patron saints" -- may have shrines dedicated to them and, over time, achieve sufficient power to become demigods in their own right. Exactly what this means for relations between the saint, his followers, and the deity he ostensibly serves is never discussed.

I'm on record as intensely disliking the reduction of gods and semi-divine beings to game stats. It's not for nothing that I dislike both Gods, Demigods & Heroes and Deities & Demigods. One of D&D's worst failings is its reductionism, its voracious appetite to turn everything into either a monster to be killed or a piece of magical technology to be wielded. Saints, as Bennie imagines them, are just big monsters -- or little gods -- to be confronted rather than anything more sublime. Maybe I'd be less bothered by this if he'd have adopted another term for what he's presenting; I don't think the idea of fighting gods is necessarily out of bounds. For certain styles of fantasy, it's even highly appropriate. But saint has a very specific meaning and Gygax's mention of them is almost certainly tied up in the implicit Christianity of early gaming.

Late 1983, though, was a long distance away from 1974, though, and the culture of the hobby had changed. What to Gygax had seemed obvious was now in need of explication and not just explication but expansion. That's why Bennie broadens the use of the term "saint" to include the servants of any god, not just Lawful Good ones. Thus we have St. Kargoth, a fallen paladin, among the four examples he provides us. To say that the idea of an "anti-saint" or "dark saint" is bizarre to me is an understatement. Mind you, I find the idea of non-Lawful Good paladins similarly bizarre, so clearly I'm out of step with a lot of gamers, no that this is any surprise.

The Long Game: Exceptions to the "Rules"

In the comments to Part I of "The Long Game" series, a reader wrote:

I’m curious to read about some of the cases where you violated your principles and how it worked out.

I thought this was an interesting premise for another post. What follows is a look at each of the maxims I presented in that series and the times I ignored them. My purpose here is twofold: first, to make it clear that even when a referee is intentional in how he structures and runs his campaign, it's probably impossible to avoid straying from his own principles from time to time; and second, to show that doing so is not the end of the world. My maxims aren’t a formula. They’re more like a recipe, something that each referee can (and should) adjust to suit his own tastes.

Play with Friends

I believe this very strongly and have said so many times over the course of this blog’s history. By and large, roleplaying games are best experienced with friends. That said, I recognize this isn't always possible.

A good example is my House of Worms campaign, which is far and away the longest and most successful campaign I’ve ever run with a stable group of players. It began in March 2015 with six people, most of whom I barely knew at the time. I was acquainted with them through the late, lamented Google Plus, but calling any of them "friends" then would have been a stretch.

Despite that, we clicked. Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was a shared willingness to be respectful, imaginative, and curious. Whatever the reason, those strangers eventually became friends – and the campaign, as longtime readers know, became something of a legend. If I’d stuck rigidly to my maxim, that never would have happened. In fact, it’s just possible that the lack of pre-existing social ties helped. It gave us space to find our own dynamic within the evolving campaign, without any outside baggage. In a setting like Tékumel, that’s actually quite valuable.

I still think prior friendship helps – a lot – but it doesn’t always have to come first. Sometimes, the campaign is the crucible where friendship is forged.

Stay Consistent

A consistent schedule of play is one of the best foundations for a long-running campaign. I think the lack of it is precisely why you so rarely hear about campaigns lasting even a year, let alone five or more. I’d go so far as to say it’s the hardest maxim to follow and the one whose absence is most likely to doom a campaign. If you’re not meeting regularly, week after week, the odds are already against you. Off the top of my head, I can name at least half a dozen campaigns I started that fizzled out because either the players or I couldn’t commit to a regular schedule.

And yet: in the late ’90s, I refereed a Star Trek campaign with a wildly inconsistent schedule, thanks to the vagaries of real life. By all rights, it shouldn’t have lasted, but, instead of dying out, the long gaps between sessions gave everyone time to anticipate the next one. When we did play, people came to the table energized and full of ideas. The campaign moved slowly, but it moved nonetheless. The irregularity gave it a kind of mythic quality. Every session felt like an event. That, more than anything, kept it alive.

Momentum matters, but sometimes scarcity makes something more valuable. Irregular play won’t kill a campaign if the players are committed for other reasons.

Accept the Lulls

This is another tough one, though for different reasons. Most of us enjoy roleplaying games because they let us escape, whether from the everyday or the already-too-eventful. They offer us a chance to step into a different world full of mystery, adventure, and danger. As a result, we come to expect a certain level of excitement from our sessions. We crave it – not just the players, but the referee too.

A good example once again comes from House of Worms. Around the third year of the campaign, the characters had settled into the Tsolyáni colony of Linyaró. I had all sorts of ideas about their taking on the responsibilities of governing a colony – economic decisions, trade, managing political and religious factions – but it turned out to be far duller than I’d hoped. Sessions dragged. I could sense a kind of restlessness in the group.

So I had some demons show up and start burning the place down.

I didn’t know why they were there. I hadn’t planned it, but it didn’t matter. The players enjoyed the sudden chaos, and it kicked the campaign into motion again.

Lester Dent once advised that if you’re stuck writing a pulp story, just have some men with guns burst into the room. That’s actually not bad RPG advice either, though I wouldn’t rely on it too often.

Be Flexible

Even though I believe firmly that the referee is a player too and that his interests and enjoyment matter, I also think a good referee needs to pay attention to which way the wind is blowing. Sometimes, you’ll spend time setting up something you’re excited about, only for the players to ignore it completely. It’s frustrating. That’s why so many referees try to fight against it, nudging or steering the players back toward “the good stuff.”

I’ve certainly done that, but sometimes, it’s better to let go – or at least let it simmer in the background.

In House of Worms, I was always keen on the idea that the characters would eventually leave Tsolyánu and explore the mysterious Southern Continent. I set up at least two separate enticements for them to head south, and they ignored both. Finally, I offered them the governorship of Linyaró and they took the bait. What followed was years (both in-game and real time) of exploration and discovery among the lands and peoples of that fabled place.

Flexibility is good, but so is persistence. Sometimes, it's OK to keep a thread alive in the background until the players are ready to pull on it.

Don’t Cling

Ideas are cheap. A good referee is always coming up with them. However, some ideas get stuck in your head. You fall in love with them. You convince yourself they’re essential. I’m not proud of this, but I’ve done it. In those cases, I’ve kept throwing the same idea at the players until they finally gave in.

That’s not the same as being flexible, which is reworking an idea into a new form. I’m talking about sticking to the same idea in the same form and just pushing it harder.

This happened in my Barrett’s Raiders campaign. I really, really wanted the characters to gain possession of a tactical nuclear weapon – in this case, a medium atomic demolition munition (MADM) – and have to deal with the consequences. I kept hinting at it through rumors, intercepted radio chatter, offhand NPC comments. The players didn’t bite. So eventually, I just had them stumble across a Soviet truck with the MADM in the back during a random encounter. Suddenly, they had it and were stuck with it.

To my surprise, it worked beautifully. Possession of the nuke shaped the last weeks of their time in Poland and helped propel the campaign toward its current trajectory.

It’s good to let ideas go. Sometimes, though, it’s okay to push – so long as you’re ready for what happens when the players finally take the bait.

In the end, maxims still matter. They’re the distilled essence of long experience and, most of the time, they’re good guides. But roleplaying games thrive on messiness, contradiction, and surprise. I still follow my maxims – most of the time – but I also don't fret about the times when I decide to break them.

Sometimes, that’s where the real magic happens.

"Better a usurper than a herald of the end."

From a speech delivered by Prince Eselné Tlakotáni in the Hall of Unfurled Banners of the Palace of War, Béy Sü (10 Fésru 2360 A.S.)

 “You are here because you wish to know my intentions. You wish to know why I have marched legions into Béy Sü and shattered the sanctity of the Choosing. I will tell you why.

My glorious father, Hirkáne, the Stone Upon Which the Universe Rested, is dead. By tradition, once he is entombed in the vaults beneath Avanthár, the Rite of Choosing a new emperor begins. But how can we pretend that rite still matters, when one of the candidates for the throne is not a prince, but the puppet of a god who should never be named? I talk not of Sárku but the One Other, a pariah god whose worship was rightly banned in Tsolyánu millennia ago. In the face of so great a threat, I will not allow the Choosing to take place. I will not permit anything that might give the One Other a foothold in Tsolyánu.

Many of you will say I subvert tradition. But if Dhich’uné ascends the Petal Throne, it is not just the Choosing that will be ended. All will end – and the One Other will sit upon the Petal Throne forever, wearing the mask of Dhich’uné.

So no: I will not let him ascend. Not while I draw breath.

By now, many of you will have heard whispers about a bargain, an ancient pact, a blood price my line has paid since the reign of my father’s fathers. You will have heard that the sacrifice of the defeated princes sustains the Empire and that, without it, it will crumble.”

I spit on that bargain.

If the Tlakotáni made a pact with the One Other, then shame on them. I will not honor it. I will not feed it more sons and daughters so it can grow fat upon the bones of princes.

An Empire built upon such a foundation is unworthy of the loyalty of any man. I’d rather the Empire fall than survive through allegiance to such a foul god.

This is not mere ambition. This is necessity. I do not seek the Petal Throne simply for power. I seek it to close the door before that thing walks through it and calls itself emperor.

And if that means I am damned by the priests, if the high clans curse me and tradition recoils at my name – so be it.

Better a usurper than a herald of the end.

My sister, Ma’ín, stands with me now. She has finally cast off her veils of ambiguity and spoken plain. She chooses the Empire, not its undoing. And you, noble lords and high priests, must know: this decision was not lightly made. The blood that flows through our veins is also a burden we carry.

But not all blood speaks with clarity. Mridóbu, the master of scrolls and subtle poisons, hides behind his ledgers and his robes, huddled in Avanthár with his bureaucrats, pretending neutrality is wisdom. He opposes me – not openly, not yet – but he stands against my actions because I am loud, because I am honest, because I leave no room for a clever escape.

As for the others, I cannot yet say. I hope they will stand with me. I intend to make my case to them, but I will act regardless of what they choose, because I see no other option.

I now make my choice plain. I have made it with sword drawn, with banners raised, with no room for doubt. The Choosing is broken – because it was already broken, shattered by Dhich’uné’s foul designs. I have no patience for masked horrors or ancient ghosts who whisper from their tombs.

I now claim the Petal Throne – not just for glory, not to wear a high diadem, not to live in luxury. I claim it to end this nightmare before it begins.

And if you call me traitor, then call me traitor. If you call me usurper, then so be it. Let history debate what name to carve on my tomb.

But let no one say I stood idle while the Empire died.”

Campaign Updates: The End is Nigh

Our Dragonbane playtest lasted one session longer than what we'd originally expected, so we will resume Dolmenwood next week rather than this. I'll have more to say about Dragonbane and my impressions of it soon.

Barrett's Raiders

The characters began their investigations into the missing supplies at Fort Lee by dividing into smaller groups, each focusing on a different part of the base. Vadim Konosev (under the identity of Waldemar, a Polish doctor whose English is limited) offered his medical services in the Displaced Civilian Assistance Zone (DCAZ) set up outside its fences. Accompanying him was Michael, the undercover CIA agent, who played the part of Aleksander, another Pole, acting as Waldemar's "interpreter." His real purpose was to gather information about what was happening in the refugee camp, both with regards to the missing supplies and whether the civilians were being in any way mistreated by the military.

Michael slipped away from the medical tent to wander among the refugees. Soon thereafter, he noticed that he was being followed by a lone MP, who kept his distance but was nevertheless tailing him. The soldier's uniform identified him as "Booth" and his rank was private. He did his best to lose him as he moved among the tents of the camp, eventually succeeding. However, he Private Booth eventually reappeared at the medical tent, poked his head in, and, upon seeing that Michael had returned, left and resumed his patrols.

For his part, Vadim saw little evidence of mistreatment or malnutrition among the civilians he treated. Most were decently fed, though there were some cases of bruises that looked like they might have come from rifle butts. He also saw signs of physical altercations, probably between civilians who had disagreements with one another. Overall, though, DCAZ seemed to be well run, clean, and relatively peaceful. It wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't nearly as bad as he had expected, given the tensions surrounding USMEA in the wake of the Richmond action several weeks prior.

Sgt. Hiram "Dutch" Everts is the unit's mechanic and designated scrounger. He also made his way to DCAZ (or the "petting zoo," as some of Fort Lee's soldiers derisively called it), looking for evidence of a black market or thefts from the base. While he found some evidence, it wasn't much. Like Vadim and Michael, his impressions of DCAZ were of a place filled with scared, anxious people but who were reasonably well treated – not quite what he was expecting.

Dutch also spent some time listening to Elijah Traynor's sermons, in which he railed against USMEA. Intrigued, Dutch talked to him a bit to get a sense of who he was and his perspective on things. Traynor reminded him a bit of his own father, a minister back in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He told Lt. Col. Orlowski that he didn't think he was dangerous or up to anything sinister. Like everyone else, Traynor was probably just frightened and found some peace of mind through his faith. Orlowski wasn't so sure and wondered openly whether he might have some connection to New America, whose new leader is known only as the Preacher.

Lt. Cody paid a visit on the personnel office of Fort Lee, trying to learn more about the staff of the base, particularly anyone who might be deemed a "troublemaker" or might have connections to locals. He and the duty sergeant bonded a bit over the absurdity of an old NCO like Cody getting a field promotion to officer, which led to some frank conversations about the situation at Fort Lee. Things are tense, because the soldiers are now expected to be ambassadors of USMEA's good intentions but with insufficient support and poor guidance. Cody commiserated for a while and then reported back what he learned to Orlowski and Major Hunter.

House of Worms

Grujúng and Chiyé were ushered into the presence of General Kéttukal at the Palace of the Realm. He received them warmly and quickly explained that Prince Eselné would soon explain his intentions to the temples and high clans of Béy Sü. However, he hoped he might receive some assurances from Kirktá that he and his companions that they would do nothing to aid Dhich'uné in his mad bid to become an eternal emperor. This was no great burden to the characters, as they had no intentions of seeing Dhich'uné ascend the Petal Throne. Kéttukal was pleased, as he knew Dhich'uné had made some sort of offer to Kirktá. Even so, Kéttukal explained that Béy Sü would remain locked down. Movement within the city would remain restricted and Kirktá would most definitely not be allowed to speak with anyone at the Temple of Belkhánu.

Upon their return to the Golden Bough clanhouse, Grujúng and Chiyé revealed what they had learned. Nebússa took Kéttukal's words to mean that Eselné intended to seize the Petal Throne by force – not unheard of in the long history of Tsolyánu but also something that had not been done in centuries. Kirktá, meanwhile, expressed a desire to meet with the priests of the One Other within the Temple of Belkhánu so that he might learn more about the knowledge locked behind a mind bar since he was a younger man. This alarmed the other characters, who decided Kirktá should never be left alone. Likewise, an excellent ruby eye should always be at the ready to freeze him in time and space should he do anything that might throw Béy Sü into even more chaos.

A summons to the Hall of Unfurled Banners within the Palace of War came. Prince Eselné hosted representatives of all the temples as well as the high clans of the city. While he extended his invitation to the other princes, only Kirktá (and Ma'ín, who had already publicly sided with him) showed up. Eselné then spoke loudly and boldly of his plans. He explained that, because Dhich'uné intended to manipulate the Kólumjàlim to his own ends, the only safe approach was to suspend the proceedings entirely. There would be no Choosing of the Emperor and Eselné would himself claim the Petal Throne for himself. Every temple, every clan, every heir would need to decide now whether they were with him or not – but if they were not, Eselné would take that to mean they were with Dhich'uné and act accordingly.

Eselné explained that Mridóbu opposed him, albeit not yet openly. Because Eselné was breaking with tradition, he could not support his actions. This did not seem to worry Eselné, who indicated he would soon deal with Mridóbu as he would Dhich'uné and anyone else who stood between him and the Petal Throne. He then dismissed the assembled priests and clans so that he could speak directly with Kirktá and the characters. He asked them to join with him in defeating not only Dhich'uné but ending the foul pact that the Tlakotáni may have made centuries ago with the One Other. “An Empire built upon such a foundation is unworthy of the loyalty of any man. I’d rather the Empire fall than survive through allegiance to such a foul god.”

Though unsure of whether his chosen path was a wise one, the characters nevertheless agreed to aid him – at least publicly. They decided amongst themselves that, if events change, so too might their actions. For now, though, they were siding with Eselné. He was gladdened by this and promised them that "Soon, we will do things that no one has done in Tsolyánu in centuries," starting with the razing of the Temple of Belkhánu for its hiding a cult of the One Other within its walls. He offered Grujúng command of a cohort of the First Legion to participate in this. After that, Eselné explained, he and his allies would be taking the battle directly to Dhich'uné – a fight to the finish.

It was at this point that Nebússa realized something Eselné did not. Dhich'uné's plans depended on their being a Kólumejàlim, a ritualized contest between Tlakotáni heirs. Eselné may be ending the usual practice of this, but could not the battle to come in the streets of Béy Sü also be considered a Kólumejàlim of sorts as well? Was this still not a contest between heirs, even if the overt form differed from the usual one? Might this coming battle still serve Dhich'uné? Once Eselné recognized the truth of this, he sighed heavily, "The Worm Prince manages to wriggle out of every trap laid for him! No matter what we do, he has prepared for it!"

Letting Someone Else Do Our Imagining

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Retrospective: Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game

Between early exposure to televised coverage of NASA launches and constant reruns of Star Trek, it was almost inevitable that I would become a science fiction fan. It helped, too, that my father’s only sister, who was barely twenty years my senior, shared that passion and actively encouraged my fascination with all things related to space travel, robots, and laser guns. So, when George Lucas’s space opera Star Wars premiered in the late spring of 1977, my aunt and I wasted no time in seeing it. Like countless other children of my generation, the experience marked a turning point in the development of my imagination.

As I’ve written elsewhere, Star Wars dominated the mental landscape of my childhood from 1977 to 1979, a reign challenged only by my discovery of Dungeons & Dragons and, through it, the wider world of roleplaying games. Even so, my enthusiasm for Star Wars didn’t vanish. I vividly remember the thrill I felt at the first rumors of "Star Wars II" (the film’s actual title wouldn’t be revealed until late 1979, as I recall). While D&D redirected some of my imaginative energy, it never fully replaced my love for Lucas’s galaxy. That said, there’s no denying that the fervor of my early affection dimmed somewhat in the face of newer, competing obsessions.

By the mid-1980s, that dimming had become a common experience. Star Wars itself seemed to be fading into the past. In 1987, the franchise appeared adrift. Four years had passed since Return of the Jedi had concluded the original trilogy and no new movies were on the horizon. For many fans, the galaxy far, far away was becoming a relic of childhood. The Kenner toy line was winding down, Marvel’s comic book series had ended, and while fan interest endured, it was increasingly nostalgic in character. There were occasional whispers of more to come, but nothing concrete. To be a Star Wars fan in the late ’80s was to dwell in the long shadow of what had been, clinging to worn VHS tapes, dog-eared storybooks, and well-loved action figures.

Meanwhile, the tabletop roleplaying game hobby was entering a new phase. TSR’s Dungeons & Dragons still loomed large, but the landscape was shifting. A host of new games had appeared, offering players fresh ways to explore favorite genres. Yet the RPG industry had not yet figured out how to handle licensed properties particularly well. With a few notable exceptions, like Star Trek or Marvel Super Heroes, most licensed RPGs of the era felt to me like clumsy grafts, existing more as marketing tie-ins than true adaptations. Then, in 1987, West End Games released Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game, designed by Greg Costikyan.

What West End delivered was more than just a faithful adaptation of a beloved movie trilogy: it was a revelatory act of worldbuilding. The game employed a streamlined D6 system, originally developed for Ghostbusters, that emphasized speed, flexibility, and cinematic flair over rules complexity. It was a system that matched the tone and pacing of Star Wars perfectly. Characters weren’t defined by a tangle of subsystems but by evocative archetypes: the Brash Pilot, the Young Senatorial, the Quixotic Jedi. Combat was fast and improvisational, encouraging swashbuckling heroics rather than tactical micromanagement. It felt, in a word, right.

But the real genius of the Star Wars RPG wasn’t its rules; it was its tone and presentation. The game didn’t merely borrow the setting of Star Wars; it inhabited it. The rulebook and its indispensable companion, The Star Wars Sourcebook, were filled with film stills, in-universe schematics, detailed planetary entries, and short snippets of fiction. These books didn’t feel like products about the galaxy far, far away; they felt like artifacts from within it. For fans starved for new material, the RPG was a lifeline, offering a way not just to revisit Star Wars, but almost to live in it.

It’s hard to overstate the influence these books would go on to have. Much of what we now take for granted about the Star Wars universe, like species names, background details about the Empire and the Rebellion, classifications of ships and vehicles, and descriptions of distant planets, originated not in the films, but in the pages of these RPG books. Lucasfilm itself came to rely on West End’s material. When Timothy Zahn was hired to write Heir to the Empire in 1991, he was handed a stack of WEG books to use as reference. In many ways, West End Games defined the Star Wars expanded universe before it officially existed.

Within the RPG hobby, Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game was also a harbinger of things to come. Unlike many earlier games, it emphasized genre emulation and collaborative adventure over simulationist detail. Its influence can be seen in the rise of narrative-focused design philosophies that would emerge in the late 1990s and early 2000s. It welcomed new players with familiar characters and easy-to-grasp mechanics, helping to expand the hobby beyond its traditional fantasy roots and making it more accessible to newcomers.

As I mentioned earlier, there were other successful licensed RPGs during this period, each with its own merits. But, in my opinion, none matched the totality of West End’s vision. The Star Wars RPG wasn’t just a game; it was a doorway into a living, breathing world, one that players could explore, shape, and make their own. Today, with Star Wars a global media brand, it’s worth remembering the quiet, crucial role this game played. It expanded the setting beyond what we saw on screen. It kept the flame alive during a fallow period. And it reminded us all that, with a few friends, a handful of dice, and the right kind of scenario, we too could journey to that galaxy far, far away.