FanFare

Dungeons & Dragons Has Given Me a Childhood I Never Had

An entirely different kind of magic

Mine was a transient childhood.

Due to divorce or moves, I changed schools every 2 – 3 years. My friendships were by necessity brief but memorable, like the burn of fireflies on a summer night.

Even as an introvert, I got really good at making new friends. Always being the new kid forces you to adapt or be forever on the outside.

Somewhat by necessity, I developed a kind of cavalier attitude toward friends. Not that I was flippant or rude to anyone. Life had taught me to not to get attached, and so I hadn’t. There were always more kids to befriend at the next layover on my way to adulthood.

The last three years of High School afforded some uncommon stability, as we settled in one place and stayed put. But with three different best friends in as many years, I still treated kids like Pokemon (before that was even a thing).

All of this is to say, the conditions were never really right for me to express who I really was. Honesty requires a level of intimacy. Especially as a teenager, when peer pressure and group think are as tangible as gravity or oxygen.

Who I really was: a bleeding heart dreamer with a love of fantasy. Dungeons & Dragons is the ultimate escapist simulation, as it invites you to try on the sword and shield of an adventuring avatar. I loved the game. Sadly, I was suffering from the cruelest malady.

I had nobody to play with.

I grew up during the 80’s and 90’s, when tabletop roleplaying games were just about the nerdiest thing going. This was back before nerd culture was chic and was just plain geek. Between the RPG stigma at the time and my nomadic childhood, my friendships were never close enough to even consider introducing to D&D’s dark arts.

I probably would’ve never bought the books myself, save for a happy twist of fate that literally put them in my hands. When I was about 12, a distant cousin briefly introduced me to the game and then gifted me his copy of the D&D Basic and Expert rules (the blue and red boxes). I was immediately addicted.

He gave me a fever and the tools to craft an antidote, but without friends, I was forever without the means.

I immersed myself in ancillary activities. The Dragonlance novels were akin to looking in on someone else’s campaign. I read and reread the rule books, and played through the introductory solo adventure so often I commit it to memory (though I never discovered a way to save Aleena from Bargle).

I created armies of characters that never explored beyond my overstuffed folder. I crafted insidious dungeons that would never know the uncertain, flickering torchlight of intrepid adventurers. I studied monster stats and imagined fighting them.

Sometimes I’d draft my younger brother into playing. He would control an entire party, usually an elf, wizard, warrior, cleric. It scratched the itch to play, and we had good fun, but it was like dribbling a basketball and never shooting. Like a ritual requiring multiple sorcerers, D&D’s power is only truly invoked when multiple minds are involved.

I bought the Player’s Handbook when second edition released and fooled myself that, somehow, I’d actually play it. But I was still too much a coward to approach my friends. Even when chance happened across my path.

One day, a friend stopped at my house unexpectedly. I’d left my book in the bathroom, which, naturally, he shortly discovered. I denied that it was my book and changed the subject.

Might he have been interested in playing? I’ll never know.

All of this explains how it’s possible to be a D&D enthusiast for almost thirty years, and yet to have only recently started playing.

About five years ago, as an adult with all the trappings of adultness equipped, I finally asked a friend if he wanted to play D&D. It was a sheepish sort of attempt, nothing whatever like the bold bit of heroism a true adventurer would employ.

Wonder of all wonders, he said yes.

We found others. Soon enough, we had a bonafide adventuring party.

Turns out it wasn’t that hard. I could’ve been playing all along, if only I’d had the courage to ask. How much of life is missed because we believe we already know the outcome and prepare accordingly?

The experience of playing D&D — actually playing, with other people — is one that is hard to put to words. The game is a kind of cauldron, into which everyone pours their imagination. And from the bubbling froth, real magic issues.

Given my long association with it, I’d thought I’d known what D&D was. But turns out, it’s not about books and dice. It’s not about playing the role of an adventurer, slaying monsters and collecting gold. It’s not even about having fun.

D&D is all of those things, of course, in the same way that a car is a motor and tires and doors. The purpose of a car, however, is transportation. And likewise for D&D, although its transportation is of a more mystical nature.

When I sit down to play, a strange sort of osmosis occurs. Outwardly, I am still the same forty-something. But on the inside, I revert to the dorky kid I used to be, the one that got giddy looking at Star Wars toys in the aisles.

Only this time, I have friends with which to play.

Thanks entirely to D&D, I have maintained friendships that otherwise would’ve decayed when our paths diverted. This is not a mercenary attempt to ensure my continued adventuring — rather, playing D&D with friends has shown me what true friendship can be.

We are all passing down life’s twisted paths; how much better to find kindred spirits to share the road. And if they’re armed for battle?

All the better.