Shelf Ramblings

"The point is..."

[maxknightley]

in general I think this website has a serious problem about wanting to feel smugly superior about Literally Everything without spending even five seconds thinking about it first

[maxknightley]

thankfully I don't have this problem, because I'm better than you losers

[funeralprocessor]

[vaguely-cryptid]

[yuri-alexseygaybitch]

In USA if you insult their jingoistic toy commercials you are forced by the secret police of overgrown toddlers known as Der Fandöm to grovel in suppliance before their capitalist idols

[asneakyfox]

the idea that restrooms, locker rooms, etc need to be single-sex spaces in order for women to be safe is patriarchy's way of signalling to men & boys that society doesn't expect them to behave themselves around women. it is directly antifeminist. it would be antifeminist even if trans people did not exist. a feminist society would demand that women should be safe in all spaces even when there are men there.

[asneakyfox]

btw this is maybe the single most key distinguishing feature of the terfy strains of radical feminism, the seed all the rest of it springs out of: they have absolutely no faith in the ability of feminism to actually destroy patriarchy. they do not think feminism can truly build a better world. they cannot really even imagine that possibility. they think patriarchy is an inevitable natural consequence of unchangeable biological facts, and therefore the goal of feminism can only be to mitigate the worst effects of patriarchy, not to get rid of it.

they can imagine a society where women get some designated safe spaces without men around. they cannot imagine a society where the presence of men is not inherently a danger to women.

[bumblebeebats]

“Frances and I were considering attending a Lesbian/Feminist conference this summer, when we were notified that no boys over ten were allowed. This presented logistic as well as philosophical problems for us, and we sent the following letter: Sisters: Ten years as an interracial lesbian couple has taught us both the dangers of an oversimplified approach to the nature and solutions of any oppression, as well as the danger inherent in an incomplete vision. Our thirteen-year-old son represents as much hope for our future world as does our fifteen-year-old daughter, and we are not willing to abandon him to the killing streets of New York City while we journey west to help form a Lesbian-Feminist vision of the future world in which we can all survive and flourish.”

— Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider: “Man Child: A Black Lesbian Feminist’s Response." (This essay in particular was apparently first published in 19-fucking-79, which is how long this conversation's been going on.)

[horsegirlwithnoname]

HARRISON ARMORY MECHS AS DRIL TWEETS LET'S GO

SALADIN

GENGHIS

TOKUGAWA

ENKIDU

ISKANDER

NAPOLEON

SHERMAN

BARBAROSSA

[foxgirlchorix]

lancer is rapidly becoming one of the 'i can't learn too much about this or ill lose myself ranking everything by how gender it is' things

this is a request for assistance in doing exactly that

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

Toriyama and The Super Villain share One Beer upon the Lathe of Heaven

"Fuck bitches, get money." – Bulma, probably

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm really fucked up about Toriyama-san passing. This is a series of unmeasured mournings I've never had the chance to process. Death is around every corner; beware, here there be Dragon(s) {Ball}.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gadzooks, Punk's Dead

Stella was 19 and waifish; picture a whispy, mud-grey shorthair cat on spindly legs with one glassy eye, her haggard mew calling through night and day like an omen. She would leap from high places her joints had no right to hold up against. I loved that beleaguered creature with all my heart. When my ex introduced me to her the first time I visited her apartment, I felt my soul tether to this witchy feline.

In January 2022, while my then-partner was away with her mother on a beach trip, I watched as the reliably lively kitty crone lay lonely through the day, her cold demeanor echoing the silence I knew in my gut meant something was wrong. She wouldn't join me on the bed that night, and when I awoke I found her prone in the dirty litter box tucked away in the closet. Her breathing was shallow and her cries quiet, and through hot flashes of tears, I swaddled her while I made phone calls to the coast and the vet and anyone who would listen. I didn't know when I handed her over to the VCA that I was loving her for the last time, that she had fought to live long enough that I could escort her to the Gates. I told her I loved her, but in my fear, I never thought to thank her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Take Me to Your Leader

Why is it always fucking Instagram? New Year's Eve 2020 – months of anguished self-interrogation at the thought of stepping outside the house crudely shoved into its ill-fitting psychic compartment like so much crinkled Christmas wrapping paper – and the cosmic saxophone playing us off the stage dampens to a wet fart when XXL reports on my timeline that DOOM departed Primary Reality on Halloween. The soundtrack of my young adulthood scratched, DJ falling face-first onto the Wheels of Steel, no beat in his heart; we've been ratted out, boys, so cheese it, before the Heat comes on.

Daniel Dumile was a different breed; he didn't want the cult or the recognition. He wanted to make dope shit. Go listen to the Red Bull interview again. The Mask wasn't a gimmick, it was him; he polished the cracks and snags of his optics until there was no tactile humanity to cling on to, a mirror shine of accountability on his metal for every pimple-faced geek like me who looked up to him. It was never about Dumile. He was there in the rhymes, in the beats. We obsessed over alter egos and collaborations and SAMPLES – would I have cared about Sade Adu without the Villain? – and he croaked having only ever wanted to make dope shit.

DOOM comes for us all.

I never got to thank him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Wall Around the Place

In 2018, on an errant trip to my folks', I stumbled across a repost of Ursula K. Le Guin's National Book Awards speech with the caption "R.I.P.". My mother graced me with several rare (for us) minutes of silence when I told her I didn't know how to be. When I left my childhood home a half-an-hour later, the air was astringent and the wet-land pasture outside my window buzzed with insect chatter.

The Earthsea books are everything I aspire to in my creative work. Le Guin covered more of the human soul in sentences a fraction of the length these fucking dorks propped up by the ~ C A N O N ~ could've dreamed to pen. She liberally seasoned her work with radical ideologies and served it all wrapped in fairy-tale fantasy and, whelp, I've pretty much chased that feeling since middle school. I still haven't found it.

She was a long-time resident of Portland and spoke regularly at events in the city. At that point in my life, I'd lived an hour away from her. I never got to thank her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Journey to the (Pacific North)West

Silverton High School's library in 2009 was brand new off a bond measure issued 20 years before, and each ripple from those taxpayer dollars over the years brought Dragon Ball Vol. 1 nearer to the front desk display counter where I initially found it. The bright red cover featuring a child Goku recalled hours of my youth yearning for the Z-Fighters in action I was forbidden from by my reactionary parents. I picked up the book with a curiosity steeped in taboo.

God*DAMN, that book annihilated my 14-year-old brain; martial arts battles and panty jokes and nazi-coded bad guys and magic orbs that summoned a dragon to grant your wish and how THA FUK was this in Bum-fuck-Nowhere, Oregon? On a high school library bookshelf?

[ No, seriously, how in THE ACTUAL FUCK was this in my public school library?!?!]

When I exhausted the 3 volumes in the school, I stalked through the town library, scraped together rare side-job dollars for bookstores, and clawed at low-res scans on shady websites. Dragon Ball was the first manga I read cover-to-cover, not to mention my gateway into almost every other thing I would obsess over for the next decade-and-a-half. There is a direct line of influence from my years of martial arts training to finding Dragon Ball to picking up Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers, ruining me forever. Without Goku's adventures, I wouldn't have fallen in love with Hip–Hop; I never would have gotten fit; no Neon Genesis for me, and everything that comes with it. Hell, DOOM's sonic universe of comic-book shenanigans probably owes some debt to Akira Toriyama for my avid fixation. So many lives have touched mine for ripples from the rock dropped by Dragon Ball into the river of my soul.

Toriyama's passing this month is cold and familiar, an estranged uncle you never felt the pressing urge to know until it was too late. I've played in his sandbox countless times, running the gamut of emotion through every fantasy he painstakingly crafted within those pages. Dragon Ball is not just my childhood but the majority of my life, intimate in the way only boon companions can be. I've never known much about Toriyama Akira outside of his oeuvre, and his death is a wound deeper than any blade or bullet can bring because I am not here without Stelly or Metal Face or Le Guin or Toriyama-sensei.

I never got a chance to thank him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Boldly Go

I was 8 when we scattered Robert's ashes.

We set out for the Oregon coast, our party of faintly realized familial connections from around the States, and found an unremarkable cove for our bitter deed. I was too young to know what ~absence~ – as in a lifetime – could mean; to me, Uncle Bob was returning Home, the waves a sublime chariot into the Beyond. I had known he was sick, but not quite in the way I knew Stella was sick; visits to his Portland apartment – wall-to-wall, top-to-bottom with the gleam of bagged and boarded single-issue comic books – were filled with tense silence as the subject of his terminal condition was daintily avoided by my mother, beside herself with stoic grief.

Robert was the first person I can remember who loved me unconditionally; who doted on me just for existing; who staged elaborate magic tricks that flourished with X-Men comics and Star Trek episodes to misdirect me from his predictable disappearance. HIV is a bitch of a Final Boss and my uncle became yet another barely-closeted gay man with fringe interests to stain the legacy of his conservative bloodline by succumbing to its cruel assault. I loved him and didn't know how to mourn him because I had never mourned a death before, and my models for that ritual didn't either, fearing him as much as they loved him, too.

The countable hours I shared with my uncle before his passing were the first cracks in the foundation of my stasis, the punctuation hanging at the end of every doubt. Without my Uncle, I never join GSA in high school, and never find all of the Queer people I keep close to my heart; without my mother's love beyond fear for her brother, I never learn to love art as I love life; without Robert, I never find Dragon Ball.

As we sent his ashes drifting into the Pacific Ocean, I whispered to the wind that I loved him.

I never thought to thank him until now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've shed too many tears over this stupid exercise in ~ R E L E A S E ~ to mention the countless others, so let's wrap this up:

Epilogue

My oathsworn brother – the one who's Instagram message broke the news of Toriyama-san's passing – called me an hour or so later after I told him I was crying. I confided in him my great shame of never sharing with Sensei how grateful I was for his effort in the struggle against human loneliness.

"He knows," I heard through the phone, without hesitation. "He's up on some lotus flower contemplating it all. He knows."

The Dead don't need our thanks: their peace is transcendent. We give our thanks to them for ourselves, to assuage the monotonous pain of knowing that many of us perish without Justice and only some pass Beyond having taken on more than their share of the burden to any lasting effect. The Congo is burning, Gaza is rubble, and I can't stop thinking about what went through Toriyama's mind when he drew Vegeta hugging his son for the first time before the redeemed villain’s predictable disappearance.

Don't just tell your people you love them. Thank them.

[amphibianaday]

day 1534

[topshelfworlds]

BEYOND THE TABLE: REALITY, THE SECONDARY WORLD, AND THE DUNGEON MASTER

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DEFINITIONS

(Primary) Reality – whatever this is, just read some metaphysics or some shit

The Secondary World – the Other Realm, the place beyond Primary Reality bridged by Imagination

The Table – Imagination; the veil of play-space wherein the Secondary World makes contact with Primary Reality

Campaign – an excursion into the Secondary World via Imagination, obfuscated from Primary Reality  by the friction between Gameplay, Simulation, and Narrative

adjudication – the process of mitigating friction between Gameplay, Simulation, and Narrative

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My most recent ex all but annihilated me last October with the contents of an amicable text message. Over the previous few months, we’d been slowly repairing our communication enough to plan cat-care responsibilities. By all accounts, it should have been a completely normal interaction following a breakup just finding its footing: she had unearthed index cards encoded with statistics for magic items her character acquired in my since-canceled campaign from among her effects and buried the small-bore offer of their return for my records under discussion of scheduling time for me to see Mr. Kitty.

I fell apart.

Background

The fantasy adventure campaign the cards originated from was easily the most ambitious – and quite possibly most successful – design of any game I’ve constructed in my near-15 years of facilitating TTRPGs: what started as a weekly Thursday meetup running dungeon crawls by the book for some co-workers quickly became a West Marches game with a roster 12–14 players deep across 2 regular play-groups using a hacked-up mish-mash system I built on the fly week-by-week. The scale was magnificent to behold, our hex map slowly blossoming as the players peeled at petals to see what the flower of this mythic land looked like inside. Nearing a year removed from those adventures, I am proud of what we accomplished to this day.

Session was an opportunity to run from the deep problems festering in my relationship; I had just moved into my partner's run-down, dream project home with her & absconded from any deeper thinking about the friction that had been building over the previous year, instead fixating on clear records of narrative timelines, dungeon excursions, side-quests, character relationships, and world events. When I made time for (free) labor around our changing living space, I permitted resentment to simmer: that my passion – being the best facilitator of this emergent fiction I could – was secondary to the dreams of my property-owning partner. When I surprised her with completed projects from her list around the house while she was away, anything less than her utter amazement left a bitter taste in my mouth. I let slip passive-aggressive moans at never having time for the prep work that made me happy, lacking the insight to realize the game was a shield against the loneliness I felt in my relationship. 

This was also my then-partner’s third Campaign of mine played in 2 ½ years. A stand out from the start, she rarely took time to understand the game outside of session for her natural ability to process mechanics and draw narrative details from thin air; creative writing and an overachieving academic streak gave her a leg up when attuning to the role she played in the group’s function. Piloting a campy, edge-adjacent build played with deadly seriousness, she worked from the shadows to accomplish her goals, maneuvering the roster’s characters as means to her ends. I was proud of her for this, the scheming and the side-quests and the subtlety, because she was playing the game and well. I could never get over the gnawing feeling that participating in the Campaign wasn’t her desire, though, but that a sense of duty absent of passion for my interests brought her to the Table; like she felt that playing was important because it was my game, and not because she was having a good time. I could never tell if she was having a good time.

When my partner and I separated last April, I disbanded the company of cordial comrades who attentively arrived to each session, oathsworn that our jaunts through The County of Blunderburry in Esterdale would continue at another time; The Secondary World moved and changed even when our minds’ eyes were occupied, I insisted, and each future visit was a promise of new ideas, of change. It wasn’t until months later that I let on to some of the game-regulars the real reason why I called our grand adventure off, well after I had found temporarily stable ground post-life-collapsing-around-me. 

Judgment

In the fallout of the breakup and upkeep of coordinating kitty care, I had completely forgotten that she had the cards, physical cues marking her in-game possession of the artifacts statted on them. Rather than answering the inconsequential question raised for me of the cards’ fate, I fell headlong into debilitating anxiety catalyzed by months of emotional turmoil, seeing past the oversight in my facilitation to the now-painful memories of hours spent at the table reaching into the Secondary World with her. My binder stuffed with dog-eared notes chronicling the escapades of the roster had gone untouched in months for the same reason; confronting the hurt inside those records of her achievements in my game was something I was not ready to bear.

I agonized over the “right” answer to her offer, begging myself to conjure something satisfactory to my principles. The way I understood the scenario, there were 2 outcomes:

• I take the cards

• She keeps the cards

These outcomes were further layered by the intentions associated with the choice:

• I take the cards...

… because they are sentimental to me … because unique items should not have duplicates … because I did not want her to throw them out

• She keeps the cards...

… because I want her to deal with them … because their existence is painful to me … because… because…

I had very little to lose, and I knew it: the items’ information – two magic swords with dragon-slaying enchantments – had been recorded in my binder upon their looting, reducing any stakes of the outcome to whether it would keep me up at night. People-pleasing tendencies reared reliably thrashing maws at my principles, insisting through self-sabotage that my only priority was to act without spite or resentment. I was frozen by this weightless decision resting on my dignity.

So I hit the copium: rather than address this unsettling quandary as the most authentic version of myself, I reached into the depths of my Imaginary Costume Chest and procured the garb of the Dungeon Master. What would the ideal facilitator do? How would they deliberate over such a low-stakes scenario, charged as it was with emotionality? I quickly found my answer and transformed through its adjudication. 

Experience dictates that enlightenment is not a once-and-for-all type deal, Siddhartha wasting away under the fig tree until perfection, weary from resistance, unravels forever. Rather, it is a series of accumulations, moments that shriek across the sky of inner sight, arriving unexpectedly and leaving as soon as you look away. In that moment, seeing through the eyes of the Dungeon Master, the Secondary World was there. The Table rose before me, and from ego-differed I saw what was due: that the fate of the cards should be decided by the player of the character possessing them, regardless of personal desire for the physical symbols. The player-character position of possession is weighty in classical adventure games; treasure is a promise of the play-style, the payout for characters bought into designs of Dungeons, Demi-Hells, and Derelicht Halls. The Truth of the Secondary World hinged on this adjudication: that – no matter what interpretation of the items’ possession I could enforce in later chronicles – the fate of their simulacrum in Reality must be decided by the equivalent representative of their possessor in the Other Realm. Any other choice was a dishonest attempt to twist the Secondary World around my selfish desire for power in Primary Reality.

Erudition

Who gives a shit, though, right? So much emotional effort spent just to decide the fate of some dingy 2x3 index cards pedantically recorded months before. Even still, I returned to the decision again and again, feeling a familiar truth that had evaded my comprehension for more than a decade of facilitation finally coming into focus. In therapy sessions following the breakup, I had confided doubts of my motivations for running games amidst shifting insecurities and self-loathing: that I used table time not as a thought-experiment I longed to leverage against those weaker parts of myself but as abolition of my responsibility to Primary Reality, to my obligations and concerns of a better life for myself and those around me. I doubted my practice, this steadfast duty to my happiness, in fear that it caused the crumbling of my relationship, rather than the tension and mistrust obviously sign-posted in shrinking gaps the farther down the road our time together traveled. 

Cloaked in adjudication, I found sublimity. I was free from expectations of self-importance and righteous grandiosity, unshackled from my self-imposed totalitarian responsibility to be anything other than a conduit for the Truth of the Secondary World. My weakness was leveraged against the fulcrum of objective judgement. Removing my ego from the equation, I found peace in the Dungeon Master’s decision. 

This epiphany is my remaking, an affirmation of my long-held belief in the practice of officiating the movements of the Secondary World; when we gaze into the Other Realm to see what could be, we are afforded the grace to think beyond our compromised persona in Reality to the idealization of our selves. The Dungeon Master’s thankless role is to give what is due the actions of those who brave the dangerous truths inside the Secondary World, moving and changing as it is even when our minds’ eyes are occupied; becoming this conduit, the Dungeon Master is anointed in acceptance of the truths they must bear. For me, just this is it: the idealization of my highest self is purest acceptance, and each orracular excursion across the Table and into the Beyond is an exercise in that action. With hope, I gaze into wonder and oblivion, knowing that the Secondary World is only just outside the scope of reality by the width of a dreamspan.

I sent her a reply with thanks for the consideration. In the post-apocalypse of my anxious breakdown, I coincidentally put my current game on hiatus for the season; sabbatical was spent compulsively plumbing the depths of myself for changes the Dungeon Master has imparted to me with years of practice. Any ttrpg player with some experience can describe at least one moment when the line between themselves and their character blur, the bounds between the Primary self and the soul on the Table becoming too small to sense. These event horizons eclipse the light of our egos, and in the cold shadow we learn where our silhouette overlaps with our characters’. Is the Dungeon Master a projection of my inner landscape, disappearing with ego death? An archetype of acceptance to aspire to, standing parallel to me in the shadow? Only a lifetime can tell.

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

Back after almost 5 years.

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

We at Top Shelf Worlds believe in creating unique and beautiful #tabletop gaming experiences for players, and the interesting materials that find their home on our work tables emphasize that! Stay tuned for more info on our upcoming Good Society game on the TSW Blog! #ttrpgs #ttrpg #rpg #roleplayinggame #janeausten #goodsociety #artsandcrafts #salem #salemoregon #oregon (at Salem, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bzi-URoptWm/?igshid=u2wd4v21bab9

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

We had a blast tonight for our first installment of WTF?! Dark Match Wrestling at #NerdNight at @thespaceconcertclub. Think you have what it takes to make it in the world of developmental-indy-pro-#wrestling role playing games? Stay tuned for date drops on future event meetups in #salem #oregon ! (at The Space Concert Club) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw6JP2lJ9UL/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1fteoq9ges3db

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

We’ve had a great start to the last week of gaming in January: two back-to-back local meetups at @archivecoffeeandbar and @thespaceconcertclub for #tabletopgames . We are especially excited that SevenStonePlace - an up-and-coming indy game publisher in #salemoregon and friend of our Worlds- debuted their game “Diesel and Dragons: Tall Tales from Texarkoma” for public beta at #thespace. The dice mechanic in this game is forward thinking, and the framing of the game in phases leaves you not just with a tall-tale you can tell in game, but one that you will want to recount to your friends over a beer. Inspired design work, we can’t wait to see more designers - shout out @tothedeathgames for their regular appearances at the meetups - bring more cool ideas to our growing #gaming #community. (at The Space Concert Club) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtRSZJZhomU/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1tiaakko3kuka

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

We’ve had a great start to the last week of gaming in January: two back-to-back local meetups at @archivecoffeeandbar and @thespaceconcertclub for #tabletopgames . We are especially excited that SevenStonePlace - an up-and-coming indy game publisher in #salemoregon and friend of our Worlds- debuted their game “Diesel and Dragons: Tall Tales from Texarkoma” for public beta at #thespace. The dice mechanic in this game is forward thinking, and the framing of the game in phases leaves you not just with a tall-tale you can tell in game, but one that you will want to recount to your friends over a beer. Inspired design work, we can’t wait to see more designers - shout out @tothedeathgames for their regular appearances at the meetups - bring more cool ideas to our growing #gaming #community. (at The Space Concert Club) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtRSZJZhomU/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=15pjszzw9kmhu

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

The games we play at Top Shelf Worlds are often filled with adventurous encounters in exciting settings, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stop every once in a while to smell the roses. Morning by Jackson Tegu has us excited to do just that; it’s a beautiful storytelling card game following a woman on a walk with her dogs, reminding us that even serene, introspective moments can and should be explored as much as any fantasy melee. Go check it out at Drive Thru Cards. ☀️ 💨 🌲 🐕 #tabletop #tabletopgames #rpgs #roleplayinggame #roleplayinggames (at The Governor's Cup Coffee Roasters) https://www.instagram.com/p/BroMk-JDN-4/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=12z2j36hskbl

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

The end of fall is close, but the brief stint of sunlight breaking through the frost in Salem, Oregon has me thinking about games that create themes around seasons. Fall of Magic’s beautiful art and immersive text subtly imply the nostalgic and melancholic atmosphere of autumn, mirroring the games thematic exploration. The journey to Umbra and the fading of the Magus are enriched by fall’s symbolic transition to the cold of winter. This is a beautiful game, both contextually and aesthetically, and I definitely plan on playing it more as we slowly journey in to the cold of winter. Do you have any games that you play during specific seasons? What settings/systems do you think would benefit from a pairing with a specific season of play? Let me know in the comments. #rpgs #roleplayinggames #heartofthedeernicorn #fallofmagic #gamemaster (at Salem, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq_HIj1nHkA/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1l7yyv8sfjy4l

[topshelfworlds]

The Future of Nerd Night & Game Vote Results: And the winner of this match is...

Ok, I promise we’ll get to game stuff, but there’s something I have to explain first that will inform the voting results of my game pitches for Nerd Night. 

Last Saturday night, at Survivor Series 2018, in a shocking turn of events, Charlotte Flair beat the hell of Ronda Rousey with a kendo stick. 

It was a powerful display of ring psychology: after an extended bout of strikes, holds, throws, counters, and copious amounts of shit talk - in which Rousey proved that she truly is a natural to this business and had every right to be there - Charlotte Flair abandoned the hope of a much needed Smackdown win and made the fight personal. As the match continued, it was clear through her amazing performance that Charlotte had begun to doubt whether she could beat “Rowdy” Ronda toe-to-toe. Tearing her Smackdown shirt off during the brutality - culminating in a particularly nasty attack with a chair around Ronda’s neck - she proved that punishing Rousey for her feud with Becky Lynch and the rest of the women’s Smackdown division was important enough to disregard the loss.  

The fall-out of this incredible in-ring narrative has since been squandered on the fallout shows of Raw and Smackdown, but that doesn’t make this match - which many fans are calling the fight of the night on a stacked card - anything less than great, and a perfect example of how when wrestling is done right, the story can be dramatic, engaging, and surprising.

With all of this build-up, I’m sure the reveal of what game won the pitch meeting’s votes won’t be surprising, though, will it?

It’s World Wide Wrestling. 

 ~Some background~

Last Saturday night, at the same time Charlotte was putting the beat down on Rousey, a small collection of Nerd Night players and facilitators gathered in a quiet secret theatre located on the second story of a small pub in north Salem to discuss the future of Nerd Night!

More specifically, we gathered to discuss what about Nerd Night - our local gaming meet-up in Salem, Oregon - could be improved upon, and how my upcoming second season campaign run could assist in this. A lot of the discussion came down to the steady growth of the player base that cannot be met with the current stagnation in our pool of GMs. To this end, a big deciding factor in the game selected for the next run was in how it could be used to address this problem. Of the five games pitched (more on that in a moment), the one game with a (potentially radical) answer was WWW. 

The game - a damn near perfect capture of the moving parts that make wrestling the fascinating bit of pop culture it is - actively encourages rosters of many different sizes, creating opportunities for promotions with just enough performers to keep the lights on, or fighting to keep their massive lineup’s  storylines straight. To this end, when discussing the influx of players without Game Masters to run for them, I proposed that this game could solve it with…

~ …and here it is…~ 

No table limit. 

The five games that I pitched read as follows (and in the order of interest I had in running them): 

Blades in the Dark Season 2, a continuation of the narrative I had going through continuous play at Nerd Night for most of 2018. I wrote a reflection of how I felt that game went here.

A DramaSystem game set in offices of the fictional Underdog Comics, a company slowly on a rise in popularity in the age of the internet (Mark my words, this game will happen at some point). 

The Forest Hymn and Picnic, I game I recently kickstarted because I love whimsy.

Tales from the Loop, specifically set in a small town in Oregon, played in a West Marches style. 

World Wide Wrestling, set in an underground college promotion in Illinois called WTF?! Wrestling. 

Of all of them, the one that ticked the most boxes for the small council gathered around my games - excitement, uniqueness, and the tools to solve some of our problems at Nerd Night - was WWW. 

Sure, it will take some maintenance on my end as the facilitator, but with matches that can be run as quickly as 15 minutes (and that’s just to make sure everyone in a large group gets a decent amount of screen time), we at the table can fit a number of matches in and observe where to go next with each wrestler’s storyline. With a vast amount of creativity at the table, the energy that comes with participating in a live performance, and the knowledge of wrestling I have recently acquired because of this system, I have no doubt that this could be an amazing game.  

~Not convinced?~

Neither were my three game designer friends, veterans of quirky systems and settings, when I asked them to abandon their skepticism long enough to demo the game with me. By the end of it, the excitement of finding out in play who was going to pin the other had them chanting like the smarkiest of wrestling nerds. Pinfalls were met with shouted counts to three, descriptions of high flying moves with gasps, and the energy of people reveling in the sheer thrill of storytelling through physical action with a genuine excitement I haven’t felt in my players in some time. Like the match of the night at Survivor Series, the feuds - and therefore the story - were dramatic, engaging, and exciting.  I welcome you to be part of this action when I introduce World Wide Wrestling - and WTF?! Wrestling’s inaugural champion, Vlad the Mad - at Nerd Night in January 2019. 

Join us! 

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

It’s true, it’s true! Wrestling is officially cool again!

[the-stephen-mcclanahan]

Ok, here goes: I just started a role playing game blog! You can expect to find a lot of overwrought, highly experimental theory and reflections on the fallout when I put that theory in to practice. Give my most recent post a read, follow the blog, and let me know if anything I read inspires you! #rpg #roleplayinggame #roleplayinggames #dm #dungeonsanddragons #dungeonmaster #blog #dice (at Salem, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/BqsgUswlyAUZKEUzE_bsWNjrQBTZHP_zmv_O-c0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1r2j90q1x5tax