and Words
It doesn′t hurt me (yeah-yeah, yo)
Do you wanna feel how it feels? (Yeah-yeah, yo)
Do you wanna know, know that it doesn’t hurt me?
Do you wanna hear about the deal that I′m making? (Yeah-yeah, yo)
You
It’s you and me
And if I only could
I’d make a deal with God
And I′d get him to swap our places
Be running up that road
Be running up that hill
Be running up that building
See, if I only could, oh
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
An enclosed courtyard sat on one side of our high school, opposite the main entrance. They strategically placed it near the cafeteria and the snack bar. Concrete tables covered the courtyard in my high school, circa 1980s. Upon breaking for lunch, students congregated on these tables. These tables became islands in an archipelago. Each table hosted its own collection of people and thus its own culture, or cliques.
I met friends at one such table. Most arrive early to maximize our time, minutes after the bell rings. We examine pieces of paper with notes and numbers meticulously scribed. We also had colored polyhedra with numbers scribed on each face. We chat quickly to assess where we left off and embark on our adventure.
We play different roles. We have warriors among us; they excel at physical combat with conventional weapons. Someone plays a healer; he binds our wounds and keeps us as healthy as possible. A friend plays a starting wizard; she casts all kinds of spells that fit our particular predicament. Me? I play a martial artist, though I may initially engage in combat with conventional weapons, I eventually become more skilled in unarmed combat.
It is how I started playing Dungeons and Dragons.
Other students occasionally stop by and ask questions like, “Is this what Dungeons and Dragons looks like?” And the answer is, “Yes, but…” I had just started playing the game. To me, the entire game was contained on a single sheet of notebook paper, with statistics and notes. Each such sheet contained the description of a character, indeed a persona that each of us played. The modest handful of us who played each played one such character, much like a single role in a film. Labels like strength, intelligence, dexterity, and hit points sat next to numbers written in pencil.
In those early days, I borrowed everything else I needed to play. We used each polyhedron as a die that represented different odds. The original dice that came with the early rulebooks were boring; they were opaque and had a matte finish. I eventually get translucent dice with a smooth finish that resemble gemstones the size of your fingernails. I carried them in a small purple drawstring bag the size of my fist. Carrying them as I maneuvered through school made me feel as if I myself were an adventurer from ancient times, keeping a modest stash of valuable gems as his treasure.
I subsequently got ‘The Player’s Handbook’, which defines the rules by which this game operates, a full-page hardcover book which I carried with me on many days. I wrapped the cover with clear Contact paper, so that I could protect it and continue to admire its artwork. It served not only as a manual for the game, but also as a source of inspiration. We, as players, could imagine our alter egos gaining expertise with a particular weapon or the ability to cast a spell. That book endured the occasional spillage of soft drink or food upon its pages.
Still, other students watched in quiet fascination as we conducted our games. Some believed the uninformed stories, repeated by their parents, that we dabbled in the occult. We operated in the fringes of polite society and knew it. Perhaps we lived in our own social Salem Witch trial, where we endured the sentence of social stigma. To them, we were social outcasts, sometimes to be openly mocked. Though on that concrete table in that courtyard, we were heroes, each with a role to play.
Years ago, I discovered a little show on Netflix called Stranger Things. The show centers on a group of teens bound together by the love of that same game, and it spins from there. There are plenty of shows and movies that highlight high school athletics and popularity. Few mentioned the fringes of society where I lived and operated. Who are we who play RPGs and dare to excel at math and computers? Finally, someone created a show about people like us. I finally felt seen.
The show highlights ‘Running Up That Hill’ by Kate Bush. It became an instrumental part of the plot. While I can’t say I remember that song from high school and my gamer days, I appreciate that this tune has become a proxy reference to that community. That song enjoyed a spike in online streams following its placement on this show. The Neverending Story, also featured less prominently in a season finale, enjoyed a more modest spike in online streams.
We all struggle with instances where, in some way, we’re on the fringes of polite society. This moment defines who we are. Quantify how much social acceptance means to you. Are you willing to forgo something that you enjoy or even love doing because people may speak about you in corners of the room in muted tones? Our little group glared back at them and collectively gave them the finger.
This little show retroactively legitimized who we were. Names like Vecna and Demogorgon were familiar even in lore. Among them are other names like Mordenkainen and Asmodeus. We wondered about the identity of Tasha and why afflict us with uncontrollable and hideous laughter. It finally screamed what we already knew. There’s nothing wrong with who we are.
I continued to play long after high school. I found a set of friends with whom I enjoyed years-long campaigns. I played many characters spanning different classes and even genders. Though I haven’t played for many years, I would entertain the possibility of yet another campaign with them.
Those sessions spanned many rule changes; each update included subtle nuances to the game. With each major version update, we’d get new books that outlined the new mechanics to the game. Stacks of books demonstrated our dedication to this game, which, with a little imagination, allowed us to be heroes.
A few days ago, as I walked out of our new building at work, I saw a collection of workmates wandering back at the day’s end. They carried books in the same way that I did back then. They would engage in their own D&D session; they played version 5. They gauged my interest and even floated the idea that I may join. While my immediate response is, “No, thank you.” I still remember those campaigns and friends with great fondness.
And really, would any of us completely dismiss the opportunity to be a hero again?