Connectivity
Well it has been long enough since I posted last that when I logged in to my account I had to clear away cobwebs before I could type in the password. It was all so dusty, and I'm pretty sure I saw what I hope was just a rat scurry away behind the URL. I knew I should have deleted my cookies. Regardless, I am back fresh from GenCon 2019 with a lot of feelings and a whole bunch of brand new reasons for you to stop reading if you have not already done so (see previous sentence). GenCon, for those of you who may not know, is one of, if not the largest tabletop gaming convention in existence. While I don't have exact numbers, I believe the estimate I heard for con attendance this year was somewhere in the 60 to 70,000 range. Tens of thousands of people traveled from all around the world this past weekend to stand in celebration of their various tabletop gaming hobbies and passions, to get inside scoops on new games and products, as well as to revel in being surrounded by a sea of nerds at all times. It is truly a singular experience walking through an enormous crowd and every other conversation being an in-depth discussion of D&D characters and game mechanics. Although gone are the days where an interest in Dungeons and Dragons would guarantee you a nonstop trip to the inside of a locker, it's still incredibly liberating to be in a place where you can know with unerring certainty that you have at least one thing in common with every single person you see. It's that exact sense of connectivity, as well as a certain melancholic wistfulness common to the post-con lull, that moved me to write about the experience. So on that note, let me continue procrastinating on unpacking my suitcases by instead unpacking my emotions. Oh boy.
Context...
This was my second GenCon in what I hope will be an annual tradition. In order for me to fully lay out what this year's convention meant to me, I first need to go back and reflect on last year for a few minutes.
GenCon was always one of those events I heard about, wanted so badly to be there, but never actually thought I would. That was something other people did. People who were not me. I had relegated myself to the sidelines in my own life, a state I am sure that a lot of you can empathize with. There was one day when I had a sudden realization that, no, if I wanted to go to GenCon, then dammit I would! I know how that sounds, believe me. It seems like a small thing, and in some ways it is. What made it significant was that it was a minor step that represented two things: firstly, it meant that I had managed even for a moment to break through the obscuring fog that kept me from being an active participant in my life; secondly it was a chance to prove to myself that not only was I capable of accomplishing the things I wanted to accomplish, but that I deserved to do so just as much as anyone else did.
The experience was magic made real. I felt myself swept away in a tide of companionship, enthusiasm, and the nerdiest form of debauchery I could imagine. I met some of my heroes and role models and found them to be at least as wonderful and kind in person as they are through a screen. They made me feel so welcome and like I was a part of something truly good that truly mattered. It was everything I needed, and I felt alive for the first time in years.
I can be awkward and shy especially when I don't feel like I belong somewhere. I am learning to get over that. I mention this because even though I was welcomed by the people I looked up to, I felt as though I had missed out on the truly experiencing the community of which they are the center. You know that feeling you get when you are invited to hang out with a tight-knit group of friends, only one of whom you have any personal connection with? It is a feeling of being on the outside of something powerfully fulfilling, warm and beautiful, something electric. It is the feeling of standing outside in the cold of winter with your hands pressed against the window, sensing the delicious warmth of the fireplace inside but being unable to reach it. You know in your heart that this group of people aren't trying to keep you out. You know they are every bit as kind and warm as you'd hope they would be, and that given half a chance they would gladly extend that kindness to you. But the fact is they just have no context for you. You are an unknown that falls through the cracks while in the presence of such brightly shining stars of familiarity.
In spite of everything wonderful that happened at GenCon in 2018, it all felt somewhat bittersweet. For an instant, I had a clear view into a kind and loving community. I had an insight into something special that I had never encountered anywhere else. I saw it all, I fell in love with it, I reveled in it, but all from the outside. I don't want to be mistaken here. What you are reading is honesty without a shred of resentment. Certainly it was disappointing to me, but I understood why it happened and didn't take it personally. When I got home, however, I made a promise to myself: next year it will be different.
GenCon was always one of those events I heard about, wanted so badly to be there, but never actually thought I would. That was something other people did. People who were not me. I had relegated myself to the sidelines in my own life, a state I am sure that a lot of you can empathize with. There was one day when I had a sudden realization that, no, if I wanted to go to GenCon, then dammit I would! I know how that sounds, believe me. It seems like a small thing, and in some ways it is. What made it significant was that it was a minor step that represented two things: firstly, it meant that I had managed even for a moment to break through the obscuring fog that kept me from being an active participant in my life; secondly it was a chance to prove to myself that not only was I capable of accomplishing the things I wanted to accomplish, but that I deserved to do so just as much as anyone else did.
The experience was magic made real. I felt myself swept away in a tide of companionship, enthusiasm, and the nerdiest form of debauchery I could imagine. I met some of my heroes and role models and found them to be at least as wonderful and kind in person as they are through a screen. They made me feel so welcome and like I was a part of something truly good that truly mattered. It was everything I needed, and I felt alive for the first time in years.
I can be awkward and shy especially when I don't feel like I belong somewhere. I am learning to get over that. I mention this because even though I was welcomed by the people I looked up to, I felt as though I had missed out on the truly experiencing the community of which they are the center. You know that feeling you get when you are invited to hang out with a tight-knit group of friends, only one of whom you have any personal connection with? It is a feeling of being on the outside of something powerfully fulfilling, warm and beautiful, something electric. It is the feeling of standing outside in the cold of winter with your hands pressed against the window, sensing the delicious warmth of the fireplace inside but being unable to reach it. You know in your heart that this group of people aren't trying to keep you out. You know they are every bit as kind and warm as you'd hope they would be, and that given half a chance they would gladly extend that kindness to you. But the fact is they just have no context for you. You are an unknown that falls through the cracks while in the presence of such brightly shining stars of familiarity.
In spite of everything wonderful that happened at GenCon in 2018, it all felt somewhat bittersweet. For an instant, I had a clear view into a kind and loving community. I had an insight into something special that I had never encountered anywhere else. I saw it all, I fell in love with it, I reveled in it, but all from the outside. I don't want to be mistaken here. What you are reading is honesty without a shred of resentment. Certainly it was disappointing to me, but I understood why it happened and didn't take it personally. When I got home, however, I made a promise to myself: next year it will be different.
Payoff...
That brings us to this year. I'm not particularly good at suspenseful buildups [rushes to hide the entire previous section under a rug to maintain the illusion], so I'll just tell you right now that I kept that promise. This year was indeed different.
This year at GenCon, I walked in with excitement at meeting in person some of the people I had connected with only online. I walked in with a game of DnD that I wanted to run for whoever I could get to agree. What I walked out with was not something I would have ever expected: I left GenCon this year with new friends. Just as a testament to the power of tabletop games and the willingness of players to fully commit and engage with them, I want to spend a moment talking about one game I played at the Con. What started out as a DnD one-shot among friends and acquaintances, turned into a much larger game played by what was, for the most part, a group of strangers. I was so incredibly nervous going into that game, that I had to take several minutes at the beginning, pretending I was using the rest room in order to collect myself. Yes that's right, for those of you reading this who participated in that game, my "bathroom break" at the beginning was actually much more like a "panic break." I had never run a game for people I didn't know, and certainly not so large a group. For those unfamiliar, an average DnD group is between 4-6 players and the DM. The group I was DMing for was closer to 9 players.
I bumbled my way through the beginning of my well-planned adventure, forcing out words through some of the worst cotton mouth I had ever experienced, the whole time my brain screaming "OH GOD, I HOPE THEY'RE HAVING FUN." But eventually I settled into a familiar rhythm. My first sigh of relief came with the first major success of one of the players. The entire table erupted into cheers, and that's when I knew they were all invested. I won't go into details on the game, as this post already feels like it's pushing the limits of self-indulgence. Besides, my blatantly ignoring your glazed eyes and obvious impatience for me to get to the point is what talking to me in person is for. The important part is this: at the end of that game, which thanks to my players' willingness to commit became very emotional, what had started out as a group of mostly total strangers immediately got up from the table and started hugging each other, wiping away tears, and thanking each other for the experience they had each contributed to making. That is powerful! That is a group of very different people coming together and bonding over, not just a game, but a shared experience. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, ttrpgs go far beyond just entertainment, and this proves it. After that night, our group became what I liked to think of, but never said out loud, as our little Con family. We coordinated event attendance, set up various other games over the weekend to play together, even leaving the convention at times to experience some of the non-GenCon attractions in downtown Indianapolis. It was... I don't think I have the words just now.
This experience was something of a microcosm for the whole Con. For four days I was swept up to new heights of enthusiasm for everything. I'd see cosplayers pass by and I would get so excited for them, even if I didn't recognize the character they were playing. It was just exciting to see the obvious effort that went into their work, and that was something worth celebrating. Additionally, I cannot recommend enough wearing nerdy t-shirts at a convention. The amount of recognition and sense of camaraderie that comes when two people of the same fandom recognize each other is priceless and nourishing to the soul.
Speaking of fandoms, I would be incredibly remiss if I didn't give a shout out to all the Superpunks (fans of Geek and Sundry's Cyberpunk/Superhero show, Callisto 6) who were just so wonderful, kind, and welcoming. Last year, being so new to the fandom, it was hard not to feel like an outsider. As I mentioned before, not being entirely sure you belong somewhere can make it difficult to find a space there. I can say with complete certainty that the Superpunks I had the pleasure of meeting this year left me with absolutely no doubt as to whether I had a place with them. There will never be enough thanks in the world to express my gratitude for that.
Honestly, I'm getting a little overwhelmed right now thinking of all the people who made this GenCon absolutely unforgettable and just a joy to attend. If I was not absolutely certain that listing them all by name and how they each contributed to the experience this weekend would make for a very long post that would make anyone who wasn't there immediately check out, I would do it in a heartbeat. In fact, I kind of already did that on Twitter. Never mind, I'm in the clear. Look, the point I'm making here is that there is an underlying kindness and sense of community to be found in the world of tabletop gaming, and it runs deep. That's not to say there aren't any bad actors, as there absolutely are. But this post isn't about them. This post is about recognizing the good, the positive, the bright and shining lights. There are so many more who fall into that category than the other one.
I know my posts are often full of mushy positivity that strains credulity as to how genuine they are. Sometimes the level to which I espouse words of hope, and kindness make it difficult to see them as anything but pablum that sweeps the depths of issues under the rug. The fact is that I stand by every last syllable of it. I have far too much respect for you and for myself to publicize anything I don't believe in one hundred percent. GenCon was a reminder to me that amidst the cynical, and the dark, and the ugly, there is kindness, there is hope, and there is beauty. So here I am, hoping that in everything I do, every word I speak or write, in every action I take it reminds you of the same. Each of us carries an ember within. Every time we come together and share that ember, the fire and warmth grows exponentially. It can be very easy to see that fire as something you'll never reach, as a place that was not made with you in mind. When you aren't sure if you belong it can feel like you're standing in the cold of winter, watching through the window as those inside enjoy the comfort of the hearth. But I am here to tell you that I'm looking out for you. I am watching the windows to make sure that door is open when you need it. The fire is every bit as warm and comforting as it seems, and there is always room for more.
This year at GenCon, I walked in with excitement at meeting in person some of the people I had connected with only online. I walked in with a game of DnD that I wanted to run for whoever I could get to agree. What I walked out with was not something I would have ever expected: I left GenCon this year with new friends. Just as a testament to the power of tabletop games and the willingness of players to fully commit and engage with them, I want to spend a moment talking about one game I played at the Con. What started out as a DnD one-shot among friends and acquaintances, turned into a much larger game played by what was, for the most part, a group of strangers. I was so incredibly nervous going into that game, that I had to take several minutes at the beginning, pretending I was using the rest room in order to collect myself. Yes that's right, for those of you reading this who participated in that game, my "bathroom break" at the beginning was actually much more like a "panic break." I had never run a game for people I didn't know, and certainly not so large a group. For those unfamiliar, an average DnD group is between 4-6 players and the DM. The group I was DMing for was closer to 9 players.
I bumbled my way through the beginning of my well-planned adventure, forcing out words through some of the worst cotton mouth I had ever experienced, the whole time my brain screaming "OH GOD, I HOPE THEY'RE HAVING FUN." But eventually I settled into a familiar rhythm. My first sigh of relief came with the first major success of one of the players. The entire table erupted into cheers, and that's when I knew they were all invested. I won't go into details on the game, as this post already feels like it's pushing the limits of self-indulgence. Besides, my blatantly ignoring your glazed eyes and obvious impatience for me to get to the point is what talking to me in person is for. The important part is this: at the end of that game, which thanks to my players' willingness to commit became very emotional, what had started out as a group of mostly total strangers immediately got up from the table and started hugging each other, wiping away tears, and thanking each other for the experience they had each contributed to making. That is powerful! That is a group of very different people coming together and bonding over, not just a game, but a shared experience. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, ttrpgs go far beyond just entertainment, and this proves it. After that night, our group became what I liked to think of, but never said out loud, as our little Con family. We coordinated event attendance, set up various other games over the weekend to play together, even leaving the convention at times to experience some of the non-GenCon attractions in downtown Indianapolis. It was... I don't think I have the words just now.
This experience was something of a microcosm for the whole Con. For four days I was swept up to new heights of enthusiasm for everything. I'd see cosplayers pass by and I would get so excited for them, even if I didn't recognize the character they were playing. It was just exciting to see the obvious effort that went into their work, and that was something worth celebrating. Additionally, I cannot recommend enough wearing nerdy t-shirts at a convention. The amount of recognition and sense of camaraderie that comes when two people of the same fandom recognize each other is priceless and nourishing to the soul.
Speaking of fandoms, I would be incredibly remiss if I didn't give a shout out to all the Superpunks (fans of Geek and Sundry's Cyberpunk/Superhero show, Callisto 6) who were just so wonderful, kind, and welcoming. Last year, being so new to the fandom, it was hard not to feel like an outsider. As I mentioned before, not being entirely sure you belong somewhere can make it difficult to find a space there. I can say with complete certainty that the Superpunks I had the pleasure of meeting this year left me with absolutely no doubt as to whether I had a place with them. There will never be enough thanks in the world to express my gratitude for that.
The hearth...
Honestly, I'm getting a little overwhelmed right now thinking of all the people who made this GenCon absolutely unforgettable and just a joy to attend. If I was not absolutely certain that listing them all by name and how they each contributed to the experience this weekend would make for a very long post that would make anyone who wasn't there immediately check out, I would do it in a heartbeat. In fact, I kind of already did that on Twitter. Never mind, I'm in the clear. Look, the point I'm making here is that there is an underlying kindness and sense of community to be found in the world of tabletop gaming, and it runs deep. That's not to say there aren't any bad actors, as there absolutely are. But this post isn't about them. This post is about recognizing the good, the positive, the bright and shining lights. There are so many more who fall into that category than the other one.
I know my posts are often full of mushy positivity that strains credulity as to how genuine they are. Sometimes the level to which I espouse words of hope, and kindness make it difficult to see them as anything but pablum that sweeps the depths of issues under the rug. The fact is that I stand by every last syllable of it. I have far too much respect for you and for myself to publicize anything I don't believe in one hundred percent. GenCon was a reminder to me that amidst the cynical, and the dark, and the ugly, there is kindness, there is hope, and there is beauty. So here I am, hoping that in everything I do, every word I speak or write, in every action I take it reminds you of the same. Each of us carries an ember within. Every time we come together and share that ember, the fire and warmth grows exponentially. It can be very easy to see that fire as something you'll never reach, as a place that was not made with you in mind. When you aren't sure if you belong it can feel like you're standing in the cold of winter, watching through the window as those inside enjoy the comfort of the hearth. But I am here to tell you that I'm looking out for you. I am watching the windows to make sure that door is open when you need it. The fire is every bit as warm and comforting as it seems, and there is always room for more.
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