There was a recent article in the Guardian about how playing Dungeons and Dragons had helped siblings bond and cope with the death of their father. It got me thinking about the role that role-playing has played (now there's a phrase) in my own life.

For me role-playing began as an escape from high school. I was a nerd, and I was physically bullied almost every day. At the age of fourteen, more than 40 years ago, I spent my pocket money on the Basic Set. I still have the dice from that set, although they do not roll true anymore, the edges having been reshaped by time.

Two friends offered to play, as did our Maths teacher, and as the Dungeon Master I described to them the wonderful intricacies of The Keep on the Borderlands, which we had pooled together enough cash to buy.



We started playing on a day when all the other kids in our year had gone off to an overnight camp. I'd reasoned that not going on the trip would get me two days and a night of not being beaten up, and convinced my parents, and my friends' parents, to not sign the permission slip that said you could go. Without that slip we would have to stay at school instead. The Headmaster had rung our parents up on the phone (which was at this time an old wind up job that you cranked and then asked the operator to connect you to a number. “Norfolk 315, please?” you would ask. “Connecting now” they'd reply. Our town was one of the last telephone exchanges to be updated in the country) to complain, but eventually it was confirmed that we wouldn't be going on the trip.



Since most of our teachers were off with the other students as well, except for the Maths teacher, we could pretty much do whatever we wanted, and what we wanted was to explore a dungeon full of kobolds, hobgoblins and other monsters.

The players set out from a nearby Inn, made their way to a dungeon entrance, disarmed a trap just inside, battled a couple of kobolds, and then began moving deeper into the dungeon. They found some abandoned storeroom and were busy looting its contents when I read out from the adventure module; “You hear the sound of heavy boots approaching from behind the door to the East.”

Just then the actual door to our classroom burst open!

“What are you doing here!?!” yelled my Social Studies teacher, his face red with rage. “The bus has already left! Come with me! Now!!!”

To say I had a fraught history with my Social Studies teacher would be an understatement. He was a born-again Christian who liked to give ‘tough, practical’ lessons to kids. He had, for example, decided one week to divide the class in two to teach a lesson about the horrors of Apartheid. One half, into which he put all the popular kids, were the ‘whites’. The other half, which of course I was put into with the other socially lower types, were designated as ‘blacks’. The ‘whites’ could tell us what to do all week, including making us do their homework for them. There would be no repercussions for what they did to us that week. This, he seemed to have reasoned, would make us all appreciate how bad things were in the South African regime.

Predictably, the popular kids behaved very badly towards us right from the outset. However, the teacher made a tactical error. He decided to leave the classroom for a while; I guess so the ‘whites’ could feel uninhibited in their attacks on the rest of us. So I had a bright idea.

I led my people to freedom.

We walked out of the classroom, went to the gym, which was empty that period, and played basketball together. The next day, when Social Studies class came up we just didn't go. We went to the gym again instead.

The Social Studies teacher eventually found us. His face, red and puffy, and his voice loud but cracking. He yelled at us that we hadn't understood the lesson. I replied we had. If the people persecuted under apartheid could easily leave the country they would. It wasn't our fault the borders of his classroom were so poorly defended.

I got into trouble, but the next day the experiment in social division was ended. I think some of the other parents had complained, and so my disruption wasn't punished very harshly.

Another time I butted heads with this man was on the yearly 40-Hour Famine. This was nationwide event where kids would sign up sponsors and spend the weekend under supervision from Friday night until Sunday afternoon going without food. The money raised went to a charity that fed people experiencing famines and droughts elsewhere in the world. A good cause.



Now, the organisers weren't stupid. Going 40 hours without any food could be seriously problematic for young teenagers. So they allowed you to have as much water as you wanted, and to have Barley Sugar lollies, which are a bland-but-sweet sugary confection. You could basically have one every hour or two without breaking the spirit of the challenge and thereby keep your blood sugar levels up.

However, the Social Studies teacher decided those rules were all wrong, and were not showing kids the true hardship of what a famine was all about. He rationed the cups of water and the Barely Sugars to one every eight hours. Several of the kids got sick on the second night and had to be taken home. Everyone complained. Even some of the other supervising teachers complained, although their ‘special water’ didn't seem to be rationed like ours. But Mr Social Studies was determined he was going to teach us what suffering was all about.

So I brought in pizza.

My house was close to the school, and I snuck out and made pizzas (with some help from my Mum). I then smuggled them back into the school. Even the other teachers ate some. I got away with it because the Social Studies teacher either called us out and the event would have raised no money, or he kept his mouth shut.

So, if I may return to the roleplaying story that started this rather long story, there was a lot of niggle with this particular self-righteous man. I may be remembering it incorrectly, what with the passage of time, but I'm fairly sure I was hit in the face by a couple of flecks of saliva as he raged and ranted about us not being on the bus that was supposed to take us to the camp.

“Our parents spoke to the Headmaster,” I said, when he finally paused his verbal assault. “He said we didn't have to go.”
“That's right,” said the Maths teacher, adding support. “They are spending the day doing some applied mathematics with me.” D&D is, to a degree, applied mathematics, so it wasn't even a lie.

The Social Studies teacher fumed, but he had no response, and so he stormed back out, slamming the door shut after him.

“Where were we?” asked my Maths teacher, who was playing an elven thief.

“Um …?”

I looked through the module until I found the words I had just read out.

“You hear the sound of heavy boots approaching from behind the door to the East,” I said.

The Social Studies teacher stormed away past the windows on the side of the classroom to loud peels of laughter from us. He gave us an evil stare, which just made us laugh all the more. The secret to good comedy is … timing.

In the ensuing fight the players not only defeated some hobgoblins, but they also vanquished a very sanctimonious teacher. I haven't stopped roleplaying since. I've made comics based on roleplaying, and regularly read such comics or stories. Role-playing is a big part of who I am.

Has a game (role, board, card, or other) had a significant impact in your life?

— Gunwallace

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