The September 1635 Edition of The Lantern Advanced Copy Available

The second issue of The Lantern, for September, is available, but only as a preview.  The only way this can be read at this time requires joining the $10 tier of my patreon.  They will be the first to see it, and will no doubt want to talk about it.

A more accessible version for $7 will be available on Patreon and on Lulu on the 21st of August, by which time I will be well into the October issue. I'm very excited about September's offer because it allows me to demonstrate the greater scope of the project. My goal from the beginning was not to just produce the same concept with the same headings month after month, or use the same voices, but to create a collection of broadsheet "contributors" that will become occasional entities... while at the same time building the setting out, not just within the scope of Devonshire, but in fact the whole world.

I'm very excited about what I have planned for October, though I won't say a word about that. Meanwhile, please enjoy the easter eggs scattered through the second issue, as it lends greater depth and context to the first.
 

Bakeries to D&D

Let's look at a business model to get into the right headspace. I want to run a bakery. There's too much work for me to do on my own, and much of the work must be done between 1 AM and 9 the next morning, while much of the interactive trade with my suppliers must be done between 9 and 5. That creates a 16 hour continuous work window, which I cannot be awake for beginning to end, especially because the bakery is likely to be open another three hours, until 8 pm. Plus, to manage my suppliers, and other business issues like advertising and quality assurance, not to mention legalistic problems having to do with a very hot oven operating in a locale that must be easily accessible, most of the time I just cannot even oversee the day to day sales of product.

Therefore, I need at least three persons that I want to hire: a baker, and probably a helper for the baker, but let's call this one person for now. A day person, someone who can arrive at noon and leave at 8, because this person must be able to do the cashout, and therefore must be responsible, and a person who can cover the last of the baker's shift and the day person's... and here is the real big issue with a bakery: the busiest part of the day is between 7 AM and 11 AM... where the third person, the one not doing the cashout and not cooking the product, IS hard pressed. And my business really relies on this person, because this person's attitude to that busy period is going to make or break me.

So, three critical persons, all of whom are doing work that could easily end my business, and I can't practically oversee them, due to my other responsibilities as a business owner. This is why running a bakery is next to impossible... because if you hire a fourth or fifth person to make SURE the business runs well, the cost of labour can easily break me.

It is for reasons like this that authority of any kind isn't about comfort or vague self-expression.  Try to go into business as a bakery owner to "find yourself" and you will very quickly find that you're not a bakery owner.  There's no room to romanticise your work or your staff, or hedge your expectations... you have to calculate precisely, daily, what needs to happen and enforce structures that ensure it.

This principle, as it happens, does not apply to DMing a game.  But funnily enough, DMing a game DOES apply to this principle.

To continue with the model discussed.  As a bakery owner, and really any sort of authority we may ever embrace, the more we know about the business we're in, the better. A bakery is always strengthened if the owner is a baker, and knows how to bake if the baker doesn't show up... but all too often, a baker is often terrible with those issues of managing the local authorities, regulations, business associations or providers as they go.  If I've worked in a flour mill, I'll see things in the flour I'm given that another baker would never see, assuming that all flour is always the same, given that it's only "flour." The more we know, the more we can see, and the more we see, the more we can adjust for it, plan for it, and fix the problem when it arises.

Yet, of course, people get into business knowing nothing except what money looks like. They start restaurants without knowing how to cook, or start clothing companies without knowing how the wider industry works, or publishing books supposing that when a printer tells them what to do, then that's obviously right. After all, the printer must know what do to.

Except that the printer's concern is the printer, no the buyer; just as the cooks who do know how to cook also know how to steal food from the owner, just as the bartender knows how to water drinks for tips, or the cloth merchant knows how to swindle a rube with third-rate cloth.  One reason why that bakery run by eastern Europeans seems never to close or go broke is because those who run it began in a host of industries, when they were young, that supported bakeries.  They worked in sugar or flour mills, they carried sacks by the hundreds every day, they made their contacts and they kept them... and they continue to do that, silently, patiently, never trying to open another location, because getting rich isn't their goal.  Baking bread is.

So, what does any of this have to do with D&D?

Our attention to detail matters, not in the game world, but in the real one. That said, however, the decision to bend ourselves to rules that we perhaps do not understand at first glance, or commit ourselves to a difficult game structure that we feel certain we can get better at it helps impress skill-sets that repeatedly come to serve us later, often in ways we can't imagine.  We might not think that opening a module, reading through it and then presenting it to players is a "skill-set," but we do precisely the same thing when we're given a company policy that we're to present to employees, who must accept the policy as we provide it.  Knowing how to present the module in a way that encourages the players to sign on helps with teaching employees that they, too, have to onboard themselves if they want to continue working here.

Of course, all that's ruined when present-moment Hasbro D&D tells the DM to be a dancing monkey. But we can leave that discussion for another day.

Traditionally, DMing has been an authority based role, one in which we manage people. Moreover, apart from the process of answering questions, filling in details, staying one step ahead of the clever player, not letting ourselves get manipulated by a player (in the same way as the baker above not being tricked into thinking a poor employee is indespensible), DMing also builds confidence, a work ethic and a sense of responsibility.

One thing that is rarely discussed in all the questions and answers about how to get players to show up to games is this:  the DM always attends.  It seems to go without saying, but it does get to the heart of the issue.  The players may or may not be turning up because of what the DM says, does or fails to do, but we can at least assume that if the DM is there, and ready to run, then the DM is committed. It wouldn't be the first role in our lives we'll engage in where we're show up ready to run the place, only to find the employees haven't.

DMing, even bad DMing, requires a discipline that players usually don't have. Prep of some kind has to be done, competence of some kind has to be gained, a willingness to adopt authority with one's friends or acquaintances, and in many cases, with total strangers, has to be assumed. Doing so requires grit, tenacity, a vision in what ought or what ought not to be accepted from players and a resolve that, however difficult it may be, we're going to keep at it because we like this game that much.  All these traits translate very, very well to the real world, when we're put in a position of authority.

Not that the world knows this.

I have "dungeon master" on my CV because I'm at a point in my life and my career that I'm not interested in working for someone who doesn't know what D&D involves, and I don't have to. It's a luxury I didn't have once.  For those who know, it's an eyebrow-raiser... and for those who stare at it, wondering why this person is including a "game" in their resume, it's a fast way of identifying employers I'd never want to work for. But for the employer who knows what that is — well, these past few years, that employer has proved to be a good fit for me.

Point in fact. In 2017, I worked briefly, four months, in a bakery, as a four-hour a day employee, four days a week, which did involve me doing the cash-out. I was trusted not because I was a D&D player (oh, how I was in bad straits those days), but because of my university degree.  Point in fact... I learned more as a DM than I ever did in university. Unless you want me to explain at length why the Roman Empire was inevitable.

I can tell you how a bakery functions because I worked in about a dozen restaurants off and on for 25 years, going back to when I was a kid. And I pay attention. That is really it. Paying attention. Effective DMing isn't about listening, it's hearing the phrases behind what's being said... the subtle clues that indicate the player wants to hedge or effectively "steal from the till" when we're not looking. Because just like employees, players will. They can be your very best friends, but where some personal gain is at hand, and you turn out to be a softie, concerned that they're having a good time, they will quietly and consciously manipulate and make you feel that they're presence is completely indespensible to your campaign. And many DMs, knowing they're doing this, will let them, thinking, "Well, it's social, right? It's a game. And I don't really care if they earn what they get."

Sigh.

Well, there are DMs and there are DMs.  And while the above describes my experience, it has to be said... there are a great many dungeon masters who should never manage anything.  Just like there are many, many people who seem to have money to start businesses they should never be allowed to start.

But of course karma pays this. Because such persons never learn anything, while their money is better in my pocket than theirs.

The advanced-copy September issue of the Lantern will be available tomorrow.

In D&D, There's No Such Thing as Superstition

In most fantasy writing, it's made overtly clear from the start that the monsters are real, the magic is real and that the modern rationalist lens for things need not apply here. Very often, an author starts by breaking the fourth wall, having a character think something like, "The dragons arrived in Septivus Canyon when Friedrich was a boy, and he had grown up hearing and reading about them."  This nails down the concept at once: "dragons are real."

The Lantern, however, does not do this. Since the framing of the writing is a broadsheet that talks not to the reader, but to other residents of the game world, it would be ridiculous for the editor to include such a line as the one above. Everyone reading, within the setting, would already know about Septivus Canyon, and how long the dragons had been there. Such details wouldn't be explained, they'd be referenced "off hand," said without preparation, thought or ceremony. Thus Fleetmarsh the editor talks about the magic missile casually, as something everyone knows, presented in the same register as lost goats, the weather or complaints about bill collectors.

Yet, even after consuming the magazine, the modern reader still assumes that Theral's Red or Snellcrake's draught is hokum, a snake oil, not real, not effective in the way the advertiser proclaims it. And this permits me to play a very clever mindgame with the reader, where their habitual superstition — and their habit of viewing D&D in meta terms — let's me pull the rug out time and again, probably as long as I wish.

It goes to the critical lack-of-connect that comes from the books and the modules and the cookie-cutter approach to running D&D. Even as we "pretend" to fight a dragon or an orc, or "pretend" that this ability gives +2 to our ability to leap this gorge, we lose sense of what the player would really think as they move through the world: that they're good a gorge jumping, and that dragons and orcs are no stranger to them than snakes and people from Maine.

This, as anyone who reads it, is far more immersive than most DMs achieve.  And it enables those who want to become better DMs to see at once, easily, that we make the game world more real when we don't explain things. Where we simply say, without building some huge justification for why a particular dungeon exists, or the purpose of some high mucky-muck, that the thing just IS.  After all, why would the characters know? When we invent such backstories, it's to inform the PLAYER, not the character... and is that really the goal here?

When the setting just is, without justification or lecture, the players must inhabit it directly rather than hovering above it, sifting through the DM's long, boring descriptions of the thing they haven't yet seen... in the same way we do our taxes.

For those who have read the content, consider the Priory for example. We learn nothing about how it was built or for whom; why it hasn't been knocked down, or why it declined. We learn a few rumours about others who may or may not have come to a bad end on account of it, but these rumours are neither confirmed nor supported by what the adventurers find. That leaves a huge open-end to the whole concept, since we're left with, "Is that really how such-and-such died?" Which as DM we don't have to answer, because sometimes... and say it with me now: nobody knows. Seriously, nobody, not in the game setting.

Thus the players are denied the comfort of omniscience. If we won't tell them, because arguably no one in the character's sphere actually knows, then the players also do not gain the comfort of being reassured. Is the wolf in Hennock just a wolf? Fleetmarsh doesn't know. His readers don't know. Perhaps the only ones who knew were able to hold that knowledge for just a few seconds, before... well, you can guess.  That puts doubt in the player's minds, even as it suggests that surely, a wolf in a typical English countryside can't be that dangerous.  Can it?

It builds tension because with it, stripped of the assumption that the DM's going to make sure the wolf in their path is manageable at their level, the players must have courage.  That's what's been lost in modern D&D.  Yes, the gallimaufry has gotten ridiculous, roleplaying has obliterated game-playing, incompetency is all that a new player can expect from a DM, who learned as much from the DM before... but the most sabotaging concept that has truly made the game boring is the total lack of courage.

Now, JB at Blackrazor likes to say, and accurately, that D&D is about adventuring. But adventuring is about courage, which is sorely lacking in people who lose nothing except their pride if a character is killed. But in this day and age, pride comes in dribs and drabs, it seems, and none have pride to spare. So courage, it's believed, must be set aside for surety, if the game's to be fun.

It is a sad state for the game to come to.

The Lantern, then, provides what's missing. These persons, even Geoffrey Fleetmarsh, vain and self-righteous as he is, who strive to learn spells or have lost two of their fingers, having gone to actual war, or urging themselves to go outside the church to discover what's scratching there, are brave. Some are a bit smug and self-important, but they're yet ready to do what we, in this world, would not: actually risk their lives to learn how to do something, and go somewhere, most of us would avoid just as hard as we can. But they're doing it because they believe it's the right thing. Bad stuff has happened... someone really ought to do something.  As Fleetmarsh writes, "Will no one undertake to deal with this menace?"

It is the words of a soul living in the 17th century, when much of the ordinary world was more dangerous than it is now... when going out to the privy on a bad night could have consequences none could guess at. What thoughts must that walk, which must be taken, dredge up in one's mind when the world is full of spiders as big as dogs?

How My Thinking Process Made This

It should come as a surprise to no one that presently I'm deep in the process of getting the second issue, the September Issue, of the magazine sorted and settled, now with the 1st of August being my deadline for pre-purchasers instead of the 21st. I'm in process, but it's engaging and I haven't much time to write blog posts.  I could use some spiced nettle draught right now.

Funny but the second issue is more difficult than the first, as there's an expectation to match what's been done.  The positive feedback that I've received for the first one is unequalled, exhilarating and a little scary. Nonetheless, I'm passed over the feeling that "no it can't be done" into "oh hell yeah, this is great." It's a nice tipping point.

This is my first post not trying to sell the thing, but I can't not talk about it because it's become the single overwhelming concern for me. It's pushed my sales of old books up, it's pushed my patreon up, it's pushed my self-confidence up and, well, I think it's bloody brilliant, myself.

But since it's my nature to deconstruct everything, it's a natural impulse to do so here. I'm not saying that I want to talk about how the "sausage is made," that's not of interest to me. Rather, the question in my head begins with the moment of inspiration that brought this about (and I'm listening, weirdly, to Grace Slick telling me to remember what the door mouse said as I write this).

I was looking at some of those magazine cover memes that people throw together about politics and other things, where they choose a picture and then badly design the outcalls on the front, like The Onion does. That got me to thinking, "Hm. I wonder how hard it would be to take one of those covers and actually flesh out the entire interior of the magazine..."

You know, actually design a mast head, make the art, write the articles, be as absurd as the cover is, not worry about whether or not it's true. I mucked about for a bit with that, off and on... this would be about mid-last month. And got to talking about it with my daughter, because annoying daughters with stupid grandfather stuff is how the world works. Or ought to.

It was a day or so after that when I began to think... "Isn't there some way this could work for D&D?"

As it happens, I have a very dense game world, not only because it's based on the real world, but because of the way I think about the real world.  Over the last couple of years, I've been playing with all sorts of possibilities that are available now, that weren't a few years ago, specifically in the crossroads where A.I. and Googlemaps meet.  To explain this, I have to include a passage here from a book I'm never likely to finish, but which I mess with because sometimes I just want to relax:

"Oh," Anya replied. Reaching out, touching the button, a panel glided open — revealing a hidden, chilled compartment, from which emerged a hint of cold mist. Crystalware glasses, etched with the Rolls-Royce mirrored 'R's, were just in reach. "Thank you," she said to Marshall, seeing intuitively where ice and water came from.

"Certainly, Miss. The black button opens the other bar, but I guessed you might want to keep your head clear."

"Yes, definitely," Anya replied, feeling the Rolls ease into motion as she filled a glass, the weight of the crystal strangely grounding in her hand. Without thinking, she drank it down in a single draught, as if the coolness might steady her. Resting the glass upon her forehead, Anya asked, "Do you mind if I ask... if it doesn't bother you while you drive... how long have you known Ms. Hedges?"

Marshall flicked her a look in the rear view mirror and considered as they crossed Park Avenue. Then Madison. "Unless I miss my guess, Miss Frost, you were hired today. It's your first day of work."

Keeping an eye upon her and on the road, he saw her nod, saw the reluctance to speak. Easily, Marshall turned the car onto 5th Avenue, adding, "I don't work for Ms. Hedges, but for an agency that provides specific drivers when requested... but I do remember my first day working for her. If you'll allow me to tell you." He stopped for the light on 54th street.

"Please do," Anya replied, eyes meeting Marshall's in the rear view.

"I didn't know her but I'd heard another say she was politely reticent; she dislikes any sort of interaction, such as we're having now. That day, she directed me out of the city, towards Scranton and Carbondale. It was bitterly cold... in the minus twenties. She wore a fur coat and had a mink wrapper stretched across her legs, while I had these—" he showed his leather driving gloves; "—and a suit jacket much like I'm wearing now."

The light changed and the phantom slid forward, making a lane change once they were past the intersection. "The first stop we made was outside Honesdale. One of those old-money places where the house spreads out and sits on a lot of land. Ms. Hedges had me stop... and as a woman in the house emerged, Ms. Hedges cast off the furs and slipped into a plain cloth coat. They met, hugged and went inside. I could see they were friends. In the car, I let the engine run hot and got by, even as frost grew on the windows."

Traffic on 5th flowed well, as they crossed 55th, then 56th. "She reappeared after an hour, the woman in the house with her; again they hugged, and talked a bit longer, before Ms. Hedges came to the car. Then, as she changed her coat—" Marshall slowed down and stopped for the light on 57th; "—she gave directions for our journey in a most impatient way. I wanted to ask, but of course I didn't; we went to a little place called Mehoopany, in the Poconos. Another sprawling ranchhouse, another change of her coat, another woman waiting on the porch. I watched the same scene play out again and began to wonder."

As the turn signal clicked, Marshall smiled into the rear view, engaging Anya again. "I don't know what was going on. We went to a third place; not far away. Lawton I think it was. Same scene, same embraces and the same hesitancy before separating. I don't think Ms. Hedges was disturbed by it, not exactly; each meeting looked to be with friends. But I saw that it was wearing on her."

The light changed and Marshall turned west onto 57th. "It wore on me, too. I'd been six, seven hours in the car, my feet ice cold despite the heater, my hands stiff as I held the wheel. If there'd been an opportunity, I'd have stopped and purchased one, but every place we stopped was in the country." Without malice, he paused before saying, "I must admit, I said a few unpleasant things in the car as I waited, you can imagine."

"It must have been a very long day," Anya replied kindly.

"It was. But when Ms. Hedges got into the limo after the third visit, she directed us towards Towanda. I followed the GPS and got us there, where she had me drive down main street. She told me to stop, in front of a men's clothing store, and said, 'You must be cold. Wait here.'"

They crossed 6th Avenue. "I still hear her saying that," he said. "Matter-of-factly; and she went in, bought me a rich, fine mohair coat and a pair of gloves, I don't know how much it was... but she compelled me to accept them, and not consider the cost." He chuckled. "You've seen already, no doubt, what she can be like."

The Phantom passed Carnegie Hall — Anya saw that Matteo Rüttimann was to begin a week-long engagement. "I've seen it," she agreed.

"Then you know. I was grateful. She settled into her seat, directing me back to New York. It was well after dark before I brought her home."

They sat silently, crossing 7th Avenue; the Phantom stopped again for the light on 8th. Anya's gaze drifted to the familiar stone facade of the old Hearst Magazine Building, before Marshall turned in his seat and looked at her. "She may not seem to care; but she does. I've look forward to driving her — not because we're friends. We're not even acquaintances. But she deserves to be treated with the greatest respect. If I'm her driver, I know this is what she gets." He paused. "I'm going to drop you off right there, just past the green awning on the right. I'll be back to collect you at four."

No one has to read this... it's merely the best way I have of describing the headspace that brought me to The Lantern. The above is telling two stories about two different geographical trips. One through New York City from the Citiplaza Centre (where that building that every youtube creator says is going to fall down) to the corner that, yes, has the Hearst magazine building, where Cosmo comes from.  The other covers an area of Pennsylvania and upstate New York. And if the reader knows either of these parts of the world, they'll know the locations and timing is accurate.

But here's the thing. I've never been to New York. Or upstate Pennsylvania. But I have streetview in GoogleMaps, so all the houses in Pennsylvania that the story stops at, those are all real.  The corners in New York, too. I paced all the dialogue driving through New York by word count, because it's one continous stream of conversation.  Essentially, I drew it like a screenplay, if I actually wanted to film the car moving along those streets, all in one shot.

Why?

Not sure, really. Because I could, certainly. It's been two years and some since my eyes were opened about ChatGPT, which no one talks about, save a few people in my actual real life orbit.  I assume there are others, but they don't share it on the 'net, probably because they'd sound as crazy as I do right now. Because they'd have to post large sections of a story that no one's read, to get the point across.

Presently, we can ask anything.  And because we can also check any answer we get, pretty easily, we don't have to wait for google to skew our searches, or hope that other search engines won't. We can just ask, making the question as complicated as we wish, and go on asking question after question as we shape and build and design, well... anything. I don't have to live in New York. I have all the images of New York, through Google street view, that I need.  And now I have a program that can describe every image.  I can even screen shot the image off Google and give it to chat and ask, "what is this?" and get the answer I want.

And what are we talking about? Whether students can cheat on tests. Whether artists can still function. Uh huh. It's 2025. I think the 20th century is done. Yes there will be artists. But those doing it the way it was done 40 years ago? Um... no, probably not.

All right, put all that aside. How do I publish a magazine for D&D?

'Cause that was the question.  I'm thinking about The Onion and trying to adapt that to D&D, which of course got me thinking about the Dragon Magazine, and how much I hated it, yes in 1981, because it really was such a shitty, shitty, shitty product.

And no, I didn't get to liking it later.

What bugged me then was how really worthless it was for my efforts as a DM. As a map guy, growing up in a world where floor plans are, um, everywhere, it wasn't of much use that a magazine about D&D thought what I needed were a lot of really badly made, not well scaled maps with extremely low detail, since I could pretty much draw this in less than a minute. The notion that I should "get excited" about this bothered me then, and it really bothers me now when people still talk about the Dragon as though it were some amazing thing.  The "life cycle" of the ochre jelly?  What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

Though yes, I probably could do something with it now, I'm a lot smarter... and I have chat. But the original article is no doubt so bad, I'd do better to start with the title and nothing else.

Yet, here I am, five weeks ago now, thinking, couldn't I do the Dragon better somehow?  I mean, the real issue wasn't the staff's mediocre sense of anthropology or biology, or their crippling outlook on historical politics or social structure, or even their cut-and-paste approach to dungeon making. The real problem was that they didn't take any of it seriously. For them, it was a game — no, not D&D, the magazine.  I mean, nothing these guys did really mattered... they were just selling their stuff to an audience less bright than they were, in a market with no competitors, to a core audience with only a few alternatives to pick from (which could likewise be easily covered)... while at the same time, there was no way they could be "wrong" about anything, because it's all just make believe anyway. None of these things are real, right? Want the life history of the goblin?  Just make it up.

On some level, I appreciate that. Except that, apart from the magazine, the players in the game campaign DID want a certain degree of consistency, which the magazine wasn't. Not even remotely. Which of course matched the audience, which hard as it is to believe, were actually more ignorant then than they are now. It's just that all the ones still with us from back then, like me, educated themselves. The true idiots, whose money nevertheless supported the magazine, quit the game and ended up selling insurance.

All right, you can see, I have some issues. Fair. But because they didn't take it seriously, the writers and self-styled gurus of the culture all ended by representing themselves as fatuously "above it all," beyond criticism... which is really a terrible place for a writer. If you don't listen to criticism, and adjust to it, as a writer you just get worse.

Therefore, the problem with the dragon, I realised, was that the writers all lived in the real world. Which put them "above" the game in their heads... and thus, "too good" for it.

What if all the "writers" were inside the game world?  That's where my head went.  What if Geoffrey Fleetmarsh, the editor, was a sort of desperate, haranguing self-righteous publisher, sure that he's always right, yet beset endlessly by incompetents, bill collectors, a readership that didn't appreciate what he was doing and so on? What if the articles were written by people who had been there, suffered the thing personally, and now had a reason to take it to this small broadsheet that'll print it because the agenda is "to shock while telling the absolute truth"?  And if there are ads, they wouldn't be slick and clean and well written... they'd be self-submitted, clumsy, full of nonsense that never ought to be in an ad, but rural truthful too. And since everything was "inside" the setting, then every off-handed comment about a wolf, an abandoned building or a missing drunkard would be "real," and therefore a potential "hook" for a DM to use.

In a lot of ways, the hooks sort of write themselves. The first rule, obey the Dragon and accept that the main aren't going to take things seriously. An edict against casting weather spells indoors?  Absolutely. The inn has a problem with dwarves?  Well, they do throw dishes and bang the table when they sing.  The fellow who fixes wagons doesn't want to travel more than a mile to do so... of course.  And it's not like addresses existed then.  So don't include them in the ads.

But then, because I'm me, and I don't play a game world that's all fun and fluffy bunnies, why not make the world real. I mean, pick a year. 1635.  That's 15 years before the game world I've been designing for 30 years takes place. I know the time period. I know the people, the sociology, the politics. The west counties is a good place for it. Separate from the main land routes, but populated and familiar as an English countryside.  A good mix of sea and land. Ships regularly landing at Plymouth from all over the world. Someone arrives from... oh, Africa, and tells a story. Any story. Any standard D&D warstory, but told from the point of a view of someone in that world, whose been there, and was invested in the outcome.  No autocratic, objective DM's point of view.  Players, experiencing the world and writing the story.  So that other players would want to read it.

I knew how to research this, how to put it together, how to follow each little scene with google maps, what questions to ask, and how to shape the dialogue and frame the concept, in the time frame I have, because of that scene above where I wrote about a car driving through New York City. Each bit of design we do, each thing we learn, gets a later application. I don't worry that I'm "wasting time," because whatever I'm doing now, it'll apply to something later. That's how I became this, and not the guy scrambling to come up with something about ochre jellies.

I was kind of shaking when I thought of this. And I would have dropped it... if this had been 2022.  Because in 2022, there was no way to adequately address what the world was like in 1635.  There would have been no way to produce this much art, this fast, for the cost that would have been, adjusted to both the time period AND the idea that the work wouldn't be limited by 1635 technology.  There simply wouldn't have been a way for a single person to do this, monthly.  Not and have it look like this. If it were 2022, I'd have had this idea and it never would have happened.

And those who have expressed, here and there, their trouble with my use of A.I. art?  I've paid for art. I bought my first piece of art for a publication I was putting together in 1994.  And I have deliberated, discussed, dealt with and paid artists for the last thirty years, when I had to, because I had no choice. Those bringing up the issue, I'm guessing you've never done it... and certainly not as often as I have. And certainly not with the understanding that being able to invent a piece of art in one's head, and have it in usuable form inside of 20 minutes?

You might as well tell me I should walk to New York, because trains put coaches out of business 185 years ago.

Sorry. I can do this now. I'm not going to wait for this to be "all right" for a lot of people who can't cope.

There you are. That's where this came from.  I'll bet the above doesn't make much sense.  A lot of time, when I just throw out a post like this, without planning it, the logic doesn't hold up well.  I go down this side passages, rant, come back, sort of just stumble around to the end, until I run out of "Oh yeah, and..." moments in my head. Which is now.

The Lantern is Now Tiered

Going forward, for those who are interested in seeing The Lantern PDF, copies must be paid for, either by joining the new $7 tier on my patreon or visiting Lulu. The free offer is no longer publicly available.

The response has been thoroughly positive. People recognise that there's an inherent value in locating session hooks into a narrative told from characters inside the game setting, providing a real, tangible glimpse into the lives and doings of those living within it. I personally believe that it's been a sensational idea: present the module not as a stale formula for the DM to follow, but as a structured step-by-step example of how a party may very well react when coming up to this door, reacting to an unknown sound or falling into some peculiar situation. What's strange for me is that I remain so close to the subject material that I'm finding it difficult to deconstruct just what I like about it so much. Those thoughts still elude me, so that I haven't constructed a blog post about it yet.

The September edition is almost done, though it's not set to be published until the 21st of August. As such, I've decided to offer it on the 1st of August for an additional $3 over the $7 asking price.  That's $10 total, which must be provided on patreon.  Those who already give me a $10 donation on patreon are set up, but if anyone else is anxious and don't want to save $3, you can get on board now and for every month going forward.

Final Days of the Lantern's Free Access

Just wanted to write a brief note: the first issue of The Lantern, issue for August 1635, will no longer be available for free on Patreon after July 22.  If you haven’t yet downloaded it, now is the time. After that date, it will remain available for purchase on Lulu:

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/nv98em7

Thank you to everyone who’s read, commented, or shared kind words so far. Your engagement is deeply appreciated. I’m continuing work on the September 1635 issue, which will release on August 21, as planned.  A preview of the front cover will be provided on the 29th of July, though it can be seen at the end of the video I posted of Elric Swann's reading.

If you have questions about The Lantern, about its construction, its content, its intentions or how I came to conceive of it, then please ask.  I'll answer most any question, provided it doesn't touch on spoilers for future articles.

Let Me Ask the Room

Two questions for the general zeitgeist.

First—has anyone actually downloaded The Lantern's PDF?  Patreon doesn’t tell me, and I’d genuinely like to know if it’s reached anyone’s hands yet.

Second—of Exalted Funeral, Spear Witch, or Tuesday Knight Games, who’s worth reaching out to with this? I’m not asking who you like—I’m asking who’d actually look at it.

The Lantern, no. 1, in full, for the month of August, 1635

Due to inconvenient circumstances, I'm launching The Lantern on my patreon, presently.  It's the 15th of July for most of the world, and I won't have time to do this tomorrow.

You can find the Lantern here, on my patreon.  It will be free for download until noon, Mountain Time, on July 22nd.

Thereafter, it will cost $7 USD, which may be managed either though contributing that amount to Patreon, or purchasing it here from Lulu.  Lulu gets a cut if you do the latter, Patreon gets a cut if you do the former.  Alternately, you can choose to give Paypal a cut, but I haven't used them in a while and I'll have to update my account.

As it states on Patreon, The Lantern is a monthly publication supporting fantasy role-play through the presentation of an early 17th-century game setting. Each issue offers firsthand narratives, regional reports and supernatural accounts written in the style of the time. In this debut edition: an adventure to the Old Priory near Cruwys Morchard, with humour and unnatural dangers. Presented for players and game-masters seeking historical texture and uncanny peril.

This publication is written, illustrated and assembled by me, in support of a larger goal: to offer players of fantasy role-playing games a rich, lived-in 17th-century setting, as an aid to worldbuilding. To that end, it conceptualises people, places, time period and relationships between the land and the events taking place in it.

I hope you enjoy it.

The Priory at Cruwys Morchard

"The Lantern" has been styled as a periodical written and presented as a local news gazette edited and published by a curmudgeonly, strained member of the press, Geoffrey Fleetmarsh. The content he's created includes village gossip, explanations of weapons and training schools, the mechanics of spellcasting and a first-person adventuring account, each of which doubles as inspiration for those seeking to understand the setting from the point of view of those inside it.  Essentially, it's a guidebook on how NPCs live, what they care about, how they perceive their lives... and ultimately, how they might be depicted more immersively by the DM.

Elements of fantasy and game features are included into the text as though these things are perfectly every day and ordinary, while the characters and advertising is frequently poignant, humorous or darkly horrific.  I believe it's wholly unique in the whole lexicon of D&D based material.

The whole magazine will be offered free, as a PDF, through my Patreon on the 15th of July, two days from now.  The above presents pages 14 and 15.  The whole is 24 pages.  On the 22nd of July, I will remove the free offer and thereafter will be charging $7 for it.  A second edition of the "magazine," the September 1635 edition, will be ready for publication on the 21st of August, and it's my intention to continue releasing editions each month, for $7 a piece, for sale on Lulu.  Those contributing $7 monthly to my Patreon will be sent the new edition through their email on the 21st of each month.  Back issues will be available on Lulu.

A reading of one of the articles can be heard by following the link. Examples of the ads from the magazine are included (save one, which appears in the next issue) and a teaser for the "September" cover is also shown. The speech accent feels period-true, with a bit of a rural edge, something British-but-nowhere-specific. It's not meant to be Cockney or posh or stage Scottish, just from the world. I'd appreciate more page views on my youtube, comments and a like if you've got it in you.

And yes—this is now the focus. I’m stepping away from the unfinished long-form projects. That may disappoint a few of you, but the truth is this: those projects didn’t gain traction. Interest was soft. Support was polite. I won’t spend hundreds of hours building something no one will buy. If that’s a hard thing to hear, so be it.

This one—The Lantern—has legs. I think The Lantern is the smartest, most immersive thing I've ever done. I think it steals the heart and soul of the real game from the clumsy, stumbling module format, repainting the latter as something that has happened, not a pantomime meant to be staged.

Master Elric Swann Speaks on Weapons

A video on youtube, as a preview for The Lantern,  as promised in the Opening Card of the last post.

Launching:  https://youtu.be/ARhyMMjfvPE?si=6h2kzdVVR17esb8-

Opening Card

 

The Lantern