Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons

by Shelly Mazzanoble

  I pick up the copy of Deepak’s Ultimate Happiness Prescription. Yep. I still have this book. It’s one of the few on Judy’s recommended reading list that isn’t residing on my secret bookshelf. (And by “secret bookshelf” I mean the one at Half-Price Books.) Admittedly, my favorite part of this book is the cover. The color goes with my living room décor quite nicely.

  Even Deepak can’t inspire me. Judy and Mike could have him. I have James Wyatt.

  As is Deepak, James is a nice guy with a sage-like air. He also happens to be the creative manager for Dungeons & Dragons. I know what you’re thinking. Creative manager for a product that’s all about boundless imagination and inspired originality? If I didn’t know better I’d think he spent all day modeling his feelings out of clay and watching PBS.

  “I do a lot, thank you,” James said when I asked him. “I’m in charge of story and innovation. I manage a think tank!”

  And they’re all geniuses, too, according to James.

  “But please don’t tell them I said that,” he urged. “I don’t want it going to their heads.”

  “I won’t.” Well, sort of.

  I kind of glossed over the pages on religion and alignment in the D&D rule books. Although I loved creating characters who were the anti-me—fearless, rugged, totally fine with living out of a suitcase for months on end—no one ever explained to me how religion factors into D&D, or at least to your character. And I guess I never asked. Until now.

  James is the right guy to answer all of my burning questions. In addition to being a nice and sage-like person, he’s got a background as a minister. He studied religion at Oberlin College and then went on to receive a master’s of divinity from Union Theological Seminary in New York City that prepared him, or rather, promised to, for the two and a half years he spent as a parish minister. And yes, he was playing D&D the whole time he was a practicing minister.

  Just as Judy tried to instill her spiritual side into my brother and me by forcing us to attend Sunday service and school, I felt like I was doing just the opposite in my D&D game.

  “I’m afraid my characters are suffering due to my lack of faith,” I told James. “Or rather lack of any clear religious influence. Why do I keep rolling up these spiritually ambivalent characters?”

  “Who’s to say that’s a bad thing?” James asked.

  “Judy.”

  “Judy?”

  “My mom,” I said realizing I probably need to give James a little back-story. An hour later we’re back on topic.

  “Well, the beauty of D&D is that you have an avenue to explore religion in a nonthreatening, nonconformist atmosphere. You should try out lots of gods and see who fits with your—I mean your characters’—ideals. Overall, religion can be as important as you want it to be and as comfortable as your group is comfortable with it being.”

  “Just like in real life?”

  “Just like in real life.”

  The beauty of religion in D&D, according to James, is “that we have all of these different gods you can choose from, so you can find a set of commandments that are already in line with how you want to play your character.”

  Oh yeah, I should explain: In D&D, it’s common to worship more than one deity and to pray to a different god at different times. For instance, there’s a god for protection, a god for knowledge, and a god for arcane magic. Depending on the god(s) you choose to worship, you’ll be expected to act a certain way.

  “Well, that’s easy,” I noted. “Now if I could just find a god that supported consumerism, sleeping in, and reality television, I’d never be in a spiritual conflict. If only D&D gods were real gods.”

  “Who’s to say they’re not?” James asked.

  “Um, probably Judy?”

  “I’m sure even Judy would agree that you should follow in life whatever makes you happy, right? As long as you’re not harming anyone,” he added when he noticed the huge grin spread across my face. “You won’t harm anyone, will you?”

  “Well, I am unaligned.”

  James gave me a fabulous idea. The following Sunday, my quest for divine guidance began. With The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in the background, I cozied up on the couch with a copy of The Player’s Handbook. There are twenty deities listed, and each lists three commandments you’ll be expected to follow if you choose to worship that particular god. Three. Not ten. And I can worship as many gods as it makes sense to. I shall have a menagerie of deities. A sort of Panda Express combo platter of idols. My needs will define my gods and not the other way around. This should be easy.

  So James, who was an actual pastor and all, must have some insights into D&D’s “shady lady” reputation. It must have affected the work he was doing, right?

  “Were you preaching to the same people who believe the spells in those books of yours were real?” I asked.

  “I didn’t preach about it,” James said. “I didn’t bring it up anywhere near the pulpit or anywhere else on church grounds.”

  “Because?” I prodded, getting all Barbara Walters on him.

  “I was afraid of a negative reaction.”

  Oops. Now I might cry. I feel for all those other people who are closeting the D&D-playing part of themselves for fear of how their community would receive them.

  But back to my mad interrogation skillz. I had done my research. I dug up an old interview with James in which he said, “I found that my D&D work was a source of freedom and energy when ministry was more life-draining for me.”

  It seems pretty obvious as to why that is. Ministers aren’t all weddings and baptisms and leading the choir in a candlelit serenade of “Silent Night.” It’s funerals and heartfelt confessions and counseling parish members who are in bad, dark places. That’s a lot to take on for even the most seasoned veteran, let alone a twenty-five-year-old fresh out of seminary school. Even Roma Downey’s angel needed to take a chill pill and recharge before she could resume touching all of those forlorn souls. And she had Della Reece to give her a few temporary hit points. Needless to say, James’s work was “very demanding and very draining.”

  But his silver lining? Surprise! Dungeons & Dragons.

  “Can I get that in writing?” I asked him, thinking of sending a very special card to Judy.

  “Umm, isn’t that what you’re doing?” he asked.

  Yes. Right. The book.

  James continued. “I would come home and work on D&D adventures.”

  Adventures that would eventually be published by Dungeon magazine. If you’re not familiar with Dungeon magazine, let me tell you— that’s a major coup.

  “It was a great outlet for creativity,” he elaborated. “Really energizing.”

  Heeding the advice of his wife, James realized he should be following that which gave him energy—Dungeons & Dragons—instead of what drained him.

  “That’s tricky,” James said, going on to explain you should be mindful of people you’re playing with. “You don’t want to get too close to anything that people are not comfortable getting close to.”

  I know he’s sincere but I can’t help but laugh at the simplicity of this advice. “I guess that’s true in just about every situation.”

  “If someone has an irrational fear of tigers with backward-facing hands, say, then don’t make them constantly run up against rakshasas,” James elaborated.

  “But isn’t that kind of metagaming?” I asked. Technically your character wouldn’t know (or care) that the guy across from you left the church in 1978 due to a bitter dispute and has never looked back.

  “Yes. It is. But like any aspect of role-playing, you dial it to the level that’s appropriate for your group.”

  It’s amazing how much like real life this whole fantasy business is.

  In the essence of time, I decided to worship five, and to prevent myself from getting overwhelmed by all this religious freedom I decided I’d stick to one a day. I’d leave the weekend free for reflecting (and because it’s Oktoberfest and I haven’ haven’t foun
d a good that reveres microbrews as much as I intend to on Saturday).

  MONDAY’S GOD: AVANDRA

  GOD OF: CHANGE

  Promotes: freedom, trade, travel, and adventure.

  What’s in a name? A lot, I hope, because I just love the name Avandra. Maybe I will get another cat.

  “What do you think of Avandra?” I asked my D&D-playing boyfriend, Bart, on our way to work.

  “The D&D god?” he asked. “I love her. She appeals to my wanderlust.”

  “I was really just talking about the name. Maybe for a dog or a cat.”

  But now that he mentions it, I can see why Avandra’s commandments would appeal to Bart. He loves traveling so much he got The Fool from the tarot deck tattooed on his shoulder. If his destination requires a series of shots, antibiotics, and adding the American Embassy to his speed dial, then chances are he’ll have a great time. Me? I’d be just as happy with a relaxing weekend on the Oregon Coast. And I’m way too noncommittal to get a tattoo. While I do love the excitement of traveling to far-flung regions of the world, I fantasize about what it would be like to spend two weeks at home. I could clean out the closets, install pull-out drawers in my pantry, watch Lifetime movies and YouTube videos to teach me things like ventriloquism and caulking my bathtub.

  “We should take a vacation,” I announced. “A real one. Like to a different country.” Whoa! Who said that?

  “I’ve been begging you to!” Bart said, rattling off the countries on his wish list. “Wait, is this a trick? Are you going to book our tickets so there’s a four-day layover in Binghamton, New York?”

  I didn’t tell him about my “deity a day” experiment because I wanted to see if he noticed organically any changes in me. “If we don’t take a real vacation I might have to join the army.”

  Bart could barely contain himself just thinking about the possibilities. “What about India? Or New Zealand? I just heard a story on NPR about Finland. You’d like Finland! They have lots of saunas. And reindeer.”

  During lunch I logged onto Expedia.com and punched in some random dates in September. How about Seattle to Athens? Oh, I could feel Avandra smiling down at me. Or next to me? Maybe across from me. Where do the D&D gods hang out, anyway? Greece has been on my bucket list for a long time, and I’m thinking with their poor economy, they’d probably love a couple of frivolous, starry-eyed, itchy-footed American tourists.

  Or maybe not. Tickets aren’t cheap but hotels are pretty reasonable. Especially those on the islands. The islands! Santorini! Naxos! Crete! I could visit the home of my beloved minotaur barbarian, Kevin!

  “Is there anything important I need to do between September 20 and October 1?” I asked Laura, my boss.

  She glanced at the calendar. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Why?”

  “I’m thinking about taking a vacation.”

  “Ah, going to see Judy. Nice.”

  “No, not going to see Judy.” Jeez. Why do people think I’m so predictable? And great. I can feel the guilt creeping up on me. Maybe she won’t notice I’m gone? “No, I’m not seeing Judy this time. But I will be thinking of her.”

  Click to purchase.

  Oh my Avandra, what have I done! I just plunked down enough credit for five sets of end tables and I don’t even know if Bart can go during that time.

  He can.

  “Are you serious?” he asked, nearly sideswiping a minivan in the next lane.

  “Pull over and I’ll explain.”

  “I’m good, I’m good!” He’s grinning like a maniac. “I just can’t believe you went ahead and bought tickets. You realize that’s ten fewer days you get to spend with Judy.”

  “Aw, come on! Why do you have to ruin a good thing? But yes, I know. Maybe she’ll come with us.”

  Again Bart almost hit a minivan.

  The next morning during our morning conversation I broke the news to Judy.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I answered. “Bart and I are going to Greece. I already bought the tickets. Avandra made me do it.”

  “Excuse me, again?”

  I explained about my twenty-four-hour experiment. “A new day, a new god. I thought you’d be proud.”

  “This is how you seek spiritual fulfillment? You buy plane tickets? Say a prayer or light a candle next time.”

  Just when I was getting cozy with Miss Avandra, it was time to move on. Candles were definitely not part of the plan.

  TUESDAY’S GOD: KORD

  GOD OF: BATTLE!

  Promotes: battlefield prowess, strength, and THUNDER!

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace and the person who made up that cliché is full of it because I was born on a Tuesday. But this Tuesday it’s all about …

  “Thunder! Da na na na na na na! Thunder!” I chanted at my desk.

  “Stop it,” Chris, who shares a low cubicle wall with me, said. “What did I tell you about AC/DC before 9:00 a.m.?”

  “Kord pooh-poohs your request! This is my battle cry. Thunder!”

  “You’re in cahoots with Kord?” he asked.

  “I am today. I’m filling a void on my friend’s kickball team tonight.”

  “And subsequently a void in your spiritual life,” Laura said, sitting down with her tea. “You don’t have to pay to play, do you? Because this little experiment of yours is going to break the bank.”

  I pumped a fist in the air and made devil horns with my other hand. “Nope. No money will be exchanged. But I do get a T-shirt.”

  And that’s about all I knew other than the location for the playing field. It didn’t matter because I was bringing it.

  “It’s on like vampire spawn.”

  “Gross,” Laura sneered. “But best of luck to you.”

  Thunder!

  Truth be told, I’m not athletic, and with the exception of my awesome kickball streak in fourth grade, never was. Perhaps it was the growing pains and the amount of baby aspirins I was downing on a regular basis but that year I possessed Hulk-like strength on the kickball field. I was unstoppable. Home run after home run. I could make it from first base to third quicker than that skeeze Jenny Dugan in the seventh grade. My prowess was legendary. I was picked first! First! Before the boys. And my popularity on the playground spilled into the lunchroom, the classroom, and living rooms across the west side of Binghamton. I went to every birthday party, had slumber parties lined up for months. Everyone wanted a piece of this future Olympian.

  When my gym teacher bought living room carpet from my parent’s store, he filled my impressionable dad’s head with tales of my athletic inclinations. Dad came home that night with a brand-new pair of sneakers, a baseball glove, and a New York Giants hoodie.

  “What’s all that for?” Judy asked.

  “Our daughter is an athletic powerhouse!” Dad said. “Time to harvest the talent!”

  “Ew,” Mike said. “You know what harvesting means, right?”

  I didn’t know but it sounded terrible.

  “It’s what they do to alien body parts. Dad thinks you’re a mutant.”

  I hadn’t quite grown into my head yet, but alien? Really?

  But that’s how my parents were. A sniff of anything promising in their kids turned into a full-fledged ticker-tape parade. My dad insisted on taking it to the backyard every night after dinner to practice catching pop-ups.

  “You got to be well rounded,” he explained. “It’s one thing to kick a home run but you got to prevent the other team from doing it.”

  “Okay,” I said, kicking up grass with the toe of my new sneakers. I didn’t want to catch pop-ups. I wanted to go inside, have a bowl of Rocky Road, and watch Three’s Company.

  “There are no scholarships for kickball, you know,” Mike said from his perch in the living room window.

  That was probably a good thing because my attempts at catching my dad’s pop-ups resembled a pile of bricks being dumped in a straw basket from thirty feet in the air.

  “Oops,” I said, watchin
g another big, red ball plunge through my encircled arms.

  “It’s probably getting too dark to see,” Dad said. Ever the optimist.

  Maybe it was the pressure, or maybe I grew too fast and couldn’t get used to my longer limbs. Whatever it was, it ended my kickball career nearly as quickly as it started. Suddenly my signature line drives were going foul. When I kept the ball in bounds I couldn’t break the infield. The sneakers my dad bought for my training felt like flippers as I trudged to first base. I pulled off my Giants sweatshirt and stuffed it under my bed. I was retiring.

  My dad stopped asking me to practice my pop-ups after dinner. Instead of visors and tube socks he brought home Nancy Drew books.

  “You can probably solve those mysteries faster than Nancy can,” he said. “You were always good at solving riddles. You could be a detective!”

  But now was my chance to make it up to my dad. I would show him that those two and half weeks of backyard practice weren’t for nothing. The kickball phenom was still alive and … well … kicking.

  “Who still plays kickball at our age?” Chris asked.

  “It’s part of a casual sports league,” I said. “They play dodgeball and flag football, too.”

  My buddy Lars had been playing in the league for years and was constantly on me to try it out.

  “It’s too painful to go back,” I told him. “I’m just not ready.”

  “It’s been, like, twenty-five years,” he said. “Besides, we drink beer while we play.”

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  There was no better time to try, what with my newfound alliance to Kord. According to The Player’s Handbook, “athletes and fighters revere him.”

  “Eye of the Tiger!” I shouted as I left work.

  I met Lars at a park near Lake Union. He and my temporary teammates were drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons out of paper bags. Good thing I wasn’t bowing down to Bahamut, the god of justice, today or else I might have had to call the police.

  “Shelly’s going to be filling in for Jenny,” Lars said. “She was the kickball champion of her fourth-grade class.”