Games I Love, Part One

These are games close to my heart, the ones I can dig into and lose myself in. You see my favorites in a few of my blogs, where I drop science daily and let loose a stream of consciousness that few other blogs can unleash. SBRPG is my central home, a jack-of-all-trades blog where anything goes. But a few of my more game-focused blogs go deeper, and that level of consciousness is so rewarding.

GURPS is one, a game I can endlessly dig into and lose myself in. The character design system is the best in gaming, beating the sequined faux-plate mail pants off of 5th Edition any day of the week. Is it retro? Do you need software? Is it deadly and realistic? Is the combat system slow and a bit of a throwback? Yes to all of the above.

Is it so rewarding and deep that I don't even care? GURPS is the end-all, be-all of games. Two books do it all. I do not need thousands of dollars of crowdfunded 5E books selling me slightly altered variants of what I already have. The sourcebooks are some of the best overviews of anything you can imagine ever written.

GURPS was also written in the era of games "beating AD&D at their own game," so it had something to prove. A lot of the games I love today come from this same era and attitude. It is funny how nostalgia and pop culture can't seem to stop kneeling at the altar of nostalgia, and the faux-nostalgia that D&D 5.5E presents as some sort of AAA Gaming Fortnite remake. The OSR worships games I gave up on in the 1980s so I could play these games.

But what if I want to play gritty fantasy or hard science fiction? A realistic western? Ancient Rome? Any historical game? GURPS will go there, and it likely already has sourcebook support. If I want to play in a setting that isn't published anymore, or want better rules for the chassis? GURPS will do all that easily. Do I want to create my own world and develop my own magic systems? GURPS was built for that. I am not forced to take the 5.5E pile of planar stuff, cosplay art, and throwback Vancian magic bolted onto an infinite-cast MMO magic system with video game rest mechanics.

GURPS will let me design my own magic system.

Instead of writing a 14-page backstory, let's design a binder-sized world story with a unique backstory, history, and magic power system. GURPS gives you the tools to DIY. D&D asks you to wait to buy the next book.

Here's another "we gave up AD&D for this" game. Palladium. A game so stuck in the 1980s and 1990s that it brings back the sweet memories of the era. Please never change. I will play in a Ninjas and Superspies game set in the 1980s to a Miami Vice soundtrack forever. No internet and no drones, and cell phones were an oddity the size of a loaf of bread that only worked in a few major cities? Yes, take me back; I got the soundtrack right here.

Palladium Fantasy is another "nah, sorry AD&D, we got better over here" game that answered the armor-damage debate. It came with a fantasy world Wizards of the Coast never repeatedly ruined. The OCCs in this game are unique; they are all specialists, none of them are balanced against each other, and each one feels like "the best in what they do," and that is on purpose.

D&D 5.5E will take a job, such as a chef, and proceed to give them a 1-to-20 rack of combat, utility, healing, crowd control, and adventuring powers to make them a useful party addition to sell you the MMO lie. Palladium will make them a world-class chef and let them die in a dungeon holding a baguette.

Not every job needs to be the same, or have the same level of utility when it comes to killing things. Some have spells with a casting time of days, but nobody else can do this stuff. People call them "trap classes" because new players pick them because they sound cool, then referees throw them into a dungeon (the AD&D mindset on the other side of the screen), and they die. Here's a thought: run Palladium like Palladium, and give those OCCs things they can do. If you want a combat-focused game, pick combat-focused OCCs.

Again, you started to see the lie be crafted in AD&D Second Edition, where they elevated the bard to a full party role. Palladium lives in an era that says, no, some roles will not be artificially inflated to be dungeoning classes. This is MMO design theory: "we have to make any choice a viable one," and the D&D 4E issue of "everything feeling samey" comes up again and again. D&D 5.5E is already starting to feel this way again, but with the added benefit of martials getting the shaft again.

If I play a bard in Palladium, I will be having all sorts of social adventures, and I will never be a door-kicker. That is fine for me, and I can enjoy a game that runs at a different pace. I will never have the raw killing power of a mercenary fighter, nor the defensive nut of a knight, but neither of them will be as good as I am when singing a song and engaging in social hijinks. The game takes on an entirely different character; the OCC creates its own "world inside of a world" it operates in, and while combat works the same, I am not living in a dungeon crawler and pretending to be a social roleplayer.

Every time I play 5E and want to do social roleplaying, my character sheet screams at me to get in the dungeon and stop wasting my time. Palladium fixes that problem by narrowing the focus of OCCs and letting them play in their own sandbox and sphere of influence.

Why not use GURPS? Palladium is faster, uses d20s and 1d100, uses an AC-like AR armor system with "armor hit points", and feels more like an AD&D-style game. One simple core system, the same combat engine, multiple game worlds, TNMT (and back in the day, Robotech) on the side, and you have it all. I get to use all of my dice. I can get a group of AD&D players into Palladium pretty easily since 90% of the concepts are the same or product-improved versions of systems they already know, whereas GURPS will take longer to learn and get used to.

Don't get me started on Rifts. That is another "ultimate game" that I loved. Rifts, GURPS, and Vampire helped kill TSR when Magic: The Gathering sucked the life out of the hobby. Rifts is sort of like Americanized Robotech, and it fills that headspace completely when Robotech went away. We want power armor and weapons that can flatten city blocks, punch through bridge pilings, and few other games (even today) do that as easily as Rifts.

Rifts was the game that your mom bought you if "your mom was cool." This was the 1990s, so it exists in the decade after AD&D died, and brings back a whole other set of memories for me. If you don't understand the games that "killed the original OSR" back in the TSR days, you will never understand the OSR and will instead put it on a pedestal, along with its flaws, which these games directly addressed. Oh, and the end of Stranger Things should have ended with the kids either playing GURPS or Rifts, if they wanted to be historically accurate.

Don't get me started on power armor design systems in other games that require spreadsheets and graphing calculators. Non-starter. Be cool like your mom wants you to be. Play Rifts.

More games in this series are coming. These two were on my mind today.

High Fashion Fantasy Demigods

If a decorative plate pauldron and a purple trench coat count as full plate mail for Armor Class, and the character refuses a metal helm so they can show off a Supercuts fade with undercut and dyed tips, the art is already telling you something important. It is telling you the game does not take physical reality, violence, or consequence very seriously.

And once the pictures send that message, the players at the table will eventually receive it too.

That is the core problem with the current house style in Dungeons & Dragons 5.5E. The art does not depict people who live in a dangerous world. It depicts fashion avatars who happen to be holding weapons. The armor is sculptural and incomplete—single pauldrons, open chests, impractical silhouettes that would fail the first solid hit. The hair is contemporary salon work, carefully styled and colored so the face remains fully visible and marketable. Helmets are treated as optional accessories rather than the most important piece of protective gear a warrior owns. The overall effect is closer to a Fortnite skin or an Overwatch character select screen than to anyone who expects to survive a fight in the mud.

This is not a minor aesthetic preference. Visual language shapes how players understand the fiction. When every illustration prioritizes “cool silhouette under dramatic lighting” over weight, coverage, and wear, the game quietly trains its audience to treat combat as performance rather than risk. The armor does not need to function because the character is never really in danger of being hurt in a permanent way. The face must stay uncovered because the real product being sold is the character’s look, not their survival. Once that logic is baked into the official art, it becomes harder for a table to maintain any sense that the world has teeth.

I reached the point where I could no longer look at the books.

The pages felt like visual noise—too stylized, too glamorous, too divorced from the physical logic that makes fantasy feel solid. So I put them away. That decision was not about nostalgia or gatekeeping. It was about immersion. When the pictures stop supporting the idea that the world is real and dangerous, the game itself starts to feel like a costume party with dice.

I do not play D&D to simulate high-fashion demigods who just stepped off a runway and whose primary goal is leveling up their aura. The current official art pushes exactly that fantasy: characters who look like they were designed for a cosmetics campaign first and a dangerous world second. Everything is polished, stylized, and deliberately incomplete in ways that prioritize visual flash over function. It feels like the game has jumped the shark straight into its Ziggy Stardust glam-rock phase—all glitter, dramatic poses, and carefully curated spectacle.

My own sense of the genre sits closer to Nirvana and Guns N’ Roses. I want the dirt under the fingernails, the frayed edges, beer on the carpet, the sense that these people have been living hard in a world that can actually hurt them. I want armor that looks like it has stopped a blade, faces that show weather and decisions, and clothing that belongs to a time and place rather than a mood board. When the default visual language becomes pure glam, the grounded, slightly ragged energy that made fantasy feel real to me gets crowded out. The books start to feel like they are selling a different game than the one I sat down to play.

The books no longer feel like anything solid. They feel like a window into a fake Wonderland of fantasy identity wish-fulfillment—bright, weightless, and carefully arranged so nothing permanent can touch the characters. When the official art refuses to take the physical dangers of its own world seriously, it becomes harder for me to take the game seriously either.

The pictures are not depicting adventurers. They depict dungeon tourists: people dressed for the aesthetic of danger rather than its reality.

That is the poser problem running through a lot of modern fantasy gaming. The characters are shown in gear and armor that would get them killed in the first hallway of the Tomb of Horrors. Open chests, decorative pauldrons, uncovered heads, flowing coats that would snag on the first trap trigger—all of it prioritizes looking cool in a promotional still over surviving contact with an actual dungeon. The art sells the idea of the adventurer without accepting the costs that used to come with the job. Once that attitude is baked into the visual language, the game starts to feel like costume play with hit points instead of a world that can push back.

As a result, players end up in one of two positions. Either they stop taking the game seriously and lean into the costume-party energy the art encourages, or they try to run a grounded, high-stakes campaign while constantly fighting the visual and tonal signals the books are sending. “I can run a serious game with this” becomes the battle cry. But why should anyone have to fight their own rulebooks just to maintain atmosphere? When the official presentation works against the tone you want, the extra labor falls entirely on the GM and the table.

That is a tax most of us eventually get tired of paying.

Other games already deliver the tonal seriousness and visual consistency I actually want. I do not even have to leave the broader 5E orbit to find them. Shadowdark has done the job cleanly: the art, the presentation, and the rules all point in the same direction. Characters look like they belong in dangerous places. The illustrations carry weight and consequence. Nothing about the book feels like it is trying to sell me a fashion line or an aura. It simply takes the premise of dungeon crawling seriously, and that single decision makes the entire experience more coherent.

When a game’s visual language and its claimed tone are aligned, the table does not have to waste energy correcting the pictures. That alone is worth more than another volume of high-gloss demigod portraiture.

One Book on the Table

I did not feel like sorting the collection today.

That is usually how these weekends start. I walk past the shelves, think about pulling three books “just in case,” and then I am an hour in before anyone has a character. I have been there with 5E. I have been there with DCC, when the zines and modules piled up so high I didn't even have room for the dice. I still like all of that stuff. I just do not always want to negotiate with it on a Sunday.

What I wanted today was one book that would stay out and do the whole job.

I get why people drift toward those one-book games. Dragonslayer was the example I used last year, but it is the same feeling with a lot of the older cores. You can make someone in a few minutes, put them in a place that already has a problem, and if they don't make it, the next one doesn't take the rest of the afternoon. The big libraries are still here. Pathfinder 1e was the last one that really worked as a library for me. The 5E cousins are either in storage, on a drive, or down to the one version I still enjoy sitting with. GURPS never left. Palladium is coming back out in pieces because I missed having it in the room. DCC takes a wall now, and I am fine with that wall because most of it is places to go, not a second Player’s Handbook I have to flip through before we start.

None of that needed a decision today.

Today I left one complete game on the table and used it. Character, fight, magic, implied world, all in the same spine. I did not rebuild anything. I did not compare two versions of the same class. I did not open a VTT because the sheet was being difficult. I made a person, gave them a door, and wrote a few lines when we stopped.

I still buy the rest. I still like the rest. I just do not owe the rest every free afternoon. When a game gets larger than I can use in one sitting, I stop playing it for a while, even if I love it. That is not a review of the hobby. That is just how my table works.

The other books can wait on the shelf. They are not going anywhere.

Game Pitch: Gaslamps & Lessers

Look at the cover. Nobody is wearing a helmet. Nobody is wearing a full set of anything. There is a corset, a top hat, a trench coat that has never met mud, and a sword held like a cigarette. This is not a warband. This is a photoshoot that escaped the studio and demanded hit points.

Newer games have decided that “adventurer” means Victorian cosplay with better lighting. The party is a row of haute-tote Betters who refuse head protection because it would ruin the silhouette. Armor is a fashion faux pas. A breastplate is what the help wears. You are here to be seen descending the club steps, not to be seen taking a morningstar to the temple.

Gaslamps & Lessers is the game those covers already think they are playing. You do start at 1st level. Of course you do. Someone has to stand in the rain. First through nineteenth are the years in trade: dungeons, marching order, people who still own helmets. The club does not take your coat until 20th. That is not the end of the campaign. That is arrival. Level 20 is when your name is in the book. Everything before it is the servants’ entrance — and you are walking it on purpose, in the outfit, daring the world to notice.

The Lessers are everyone who never gets the coat. Provincial knights. Parties that pack rope. Anyone who thinks a +3 weapon is a personality. You will be them for a long time. Then you will send a card.

Optional rule: the Privilege Die

At the start of any encounter, social scene, or declared combat, the player of the highest-level character present rolls 1d20 in the open.

If the result is lower than that character’s level, the scene does not happen. It is resolved offstage, in the party’s favor. Constables, cousins, groundskeepers, or “a man who owes the family a favor” finish it before the tea cools. When even that would be gauche, magic itself kneels. The spell, the curse, the haunted stair — it steps in and resolves the issue so as not to inconvenience them. Reality would rather tidy itself than ask a Better to draw steel.

That player may then talk down to the encounter and, if they wish, to everyone else at the table who still had their miniature in a fighting stance. One remark. Then the next invitation.

If the result is equal to or higher than the character’s level, you actually have to play. No speech. The coat failed. A natural 20 always plays. Even a duke is occasionally forced to look at a thing. Even magic sometimes forgets its manners.

At 1st level, the die almost never saves you. You are the Lesser. At 10th, half the street moves. At 20th, nineteen scenes in twenty never reach the foyer. You do not earn experience for work the household — or the weave — already completed. Privilege is insulation, not practice.

This is why the art dropped the helmet. If the die is working, nothing will hit you in the head. Society is the armor. When society is late, the universe puts on the apron. The trench coat is not protection. It is a statement that protection would be vulgar. Full plate is what you put on the footman you send into the cellar. The Betters stay in the foyer and explain, at length, why this was never going to be their problem.

“Have the groundskeeper put it with the others.”
“We don’t do cellars.”
“If it had been important, it would have written first.”
“The ward can see itself out.”

When the die fails, the lowest-level character at the table goes downstairs. The coat stays on the peg. That is the entire class system. The cover already told you who was going to stay pretty. You just have to survive nineteen levels of looking like that before the world agrees.

Modern design treats 20th level like a victory lap and a second binder of options. Gaslamps & Lessers treats it like a membership card you spend the whole game earning while dressed for the portrait. The dungeon is still under the parish. Early on, you go. Later, you simply stop. The owlbear can wait. Someone in a helmet will take care of it. If not, the magic will.

It knows better than to keep you waiting.

Game Pitch: Grimdark Cozy

The gnomes decided they had enough.

Not enough grain. Not enough tithe. Enough of the story that said the Cozy Lands were a place you lived. Dark magic took the warrens first — not as a thunderclap, but as a ledger that started balancing in blood. They took the Chaos Gods the way a miller takes a better stone: because the old gods paid in seasons and the new ones paid in endings. Black hoods. Black iron. A theology with no harvest festival left in it. They did not conquer the meadows so much as close the book on them.

They rule the Cozy Lands with an iron fist. Every mouse-kin, mole-kin, sparrow-kin, and hedgehog with a sewing-needle spear lives in that shadow. The cottages still look like the picture books. The smoke still smells like bread. That is the joke the gnomes allow. Cute is a costume the parish leaves on the livestock so the livestock keep reporting to market.

You play an animal-kin of your choosing. Fighter is the one who gets better at hitting. Specialist is the skill kit. Magic is a loaded acorn — someone will regret the season it was planted. You are small, armed like a folk tale, and visible. The gnomes are not a class. They are the state. They watch the holes, the fords, the chapel steps, the path that used to be a picnic. A pass for the road. A fine for unlicensed burrowing. Stocks for a word said wrong in the square. Witchcraft charges for anyone who found a ring and was foolish enough to wear it.

The wolves are not a random encounter. They are the forest’s tax collectors, and they do not take coin. When an animal-kin vanishes between the hedge and the burrow, the gnomes write it down as weather. When the gnomes want a lesson, they do not need wolves. They have wood, iron, and a crowd that would rather see a stranger in the stocks than a cousin.

This is not a game about saving the Cozy Lands. The Cozy Lands already lost and kept the paint. You are what still moves underneath the postcard — hungry, armed, and one bad night from the parish deciding you were never people.

The night does not start with a tavern speech. It starts like a crime scene that still has bunting on it.

Thistleford looks like a stitch-sampler. Round doors. Window-boxes. A painted sign of a smiling hare holding a pie. Lanterns the color of butterscotch. If you only saw the square at noon, you would swear the world had kept its promise. Night takes the same square and turns the lanterns into interrogation lamps. The pie on the sign is still there. So are the stocks. Someone small is in them. Dew on the wood. A little coat hangs on the post so it won't get mud on the embroidery. Something else wearing it could be hanging in the town square.

The gnomes do not raise their voices. That is the noir of it. A reeve in a black hood, iron polished like a church shoe, reads from a board as if he were announcing a bake sale. Tithe-cart late. Chapel bell since Tuesday. Volunteer required. Paws small enough for the grate. He smiles when he says, volunteer. The smile is the worst object in the square.

You are already in the picture. Animal-kin in travel cloaks that would be darling in a catalog. A hedgehog’s spear no longer than a knitting needle. A sparrow-kin counting seeds in a matchbox like they were rounds. Across the green, a window still has a paper heart stuck to the glass. Behind it, someone closes the shutter. Cute is what the parish leaves in the frame so the ledger can work in peace.

How the night actually begins is a choice the table makes with their feet, not their backstory.

If you go to the stocks, you get a face and a whisper and a reason that will not survive contact with a gnome court. If you go to the ford, you get the cart: painted mushrooms on the side-boards, chains under the canvas, a smell that is not jam. If you go to the chapel, you get the bell, which is still ringing, and a nave full of tiny pews, and a grate that was built for things the hymnals do not mention. If you do nothing, the square keeps being pretty, and the pretty becomes a witness statement against you by morning.

The wolves stay offstage. You may smell them on the path. The gnomes will still call it weather. The postcard will not include that part.

Noir rule for the referee: never let the cute be flavor. Let it be evidence. The ribbon on the stocks is a clue. The smiling hare on the sign is an alibi. The butterscotch lantern is how they see your hands. Every darling thing in Thistleford is either a lure, a record, or a lid. When the animal-kin pick it up, they leave prints.

You do not get a bestiary page. You get a situation that will not hold still. The gnomes watch from the steps with the patience of people who already know how the story is classified. Compliance is the dark order’s only sacrament. Curiosity is how the parish fills the next set of holes in the wood.

That is the start. Not “you all meet in a burrow.” You all meet in a crime that still thinks it is a village fete. The paint is dry. The bell is not. Someone has to move, and the moment they do, the Cozy Lands remember what the gnomes decided they had enough of.

The cottages were always going to be this sharp. We just agreed not to look at the stocks.

Solo, and Still Surprised

I play Dungeon Crawl Classics solo, and it is an amazing game. It has just enough crunch, table-induced madness, and randomness to make me happy, and the emergent play that randomness creates keeps it from becoming a boring exercise in running something solo, going through the motions, and never being surprised.

That last part is the whole argument. Solo play dies when you already know what the next ten minutes will feel like. You open the binder, push the party down the hall, narrate the obvious success, and mark the box. DCC refuses to let the box stay marked. A Mighty Deed is not a feat paragraph you pre-solved at chargen. A wizard does not fire a known payload. Occupations hand you a weaver and a pair of scissors and call it a character. Luck sits on the sheet like a second Judge. The tables are not garnish. They are how the game talks back.

I do not need the book to be thin for that to work. The core is a fat book. A lot of those pages are results: crits, fumbles, mercurial magic, corruption, disapproval, patrons, the long weird tail of a spell that actually happens. That is a different kind of page than a catalog of who you get to be. I am not flipping six volumes to see whether this subclass interaction still functions. I am rolling to find out what the universe just did to a peasant who was a gong farmer yesterday.

Solo makes that louder. There is no table to perform for and no Judge to paper over a dull room. If the system is only a resolution engine, you will feel yourself acting both parts and get bored. DCC was already halfway to an oracle. The funnel is the cleanest version of the trick. You do not design a protagonist. You generate a village, you walk them into a hole, and the campaign is whoever crawls out. The deaths are plot. The survivors are premise. I do not have to protect a precious concept I spent a Sunday building. The dice already spent that Sunday without me.

A sixteen-peasant funnel looks like bookkeeping. In practice it collapses. You do not need a novel for every name. You need a line: occupation, the one stat that matters, hit points, what they are holding. When the herd thins, the game gets quieter and stranger, which is the opposite of most solo loops, where the sheet only ever gets louder. If the mob is too much on a given night, the culture around the game already knows how to shrink it. The point is not the headcount. The point is that the first level you play is a level you did not choose.

I have two and a half shelves of Dungeon Crawl Classics, and I do not feel shelf-obese. Most of that wood is adventures, megadungeons, and places. When the game puts on a different jacket — XCrawl, Mutant Crawl Classics — it is still one book talking. Some of the games live in zines that riff the main rulebook instead of replacing it. StarCrawl does not ask me to learn a second language. Some of the spines are settings. Some are art books and odd covers. The dice sit in clear boxes because looking at them is part of owning them. That shelf is not a problem I have to solve. It is the hobby, visible.

A hobby shelf is a map. A rules shelf is a filing cabinet. DCC keeps stacking rooms onto one conversation. The book on the table is still the game. The rest is more dungeon, more weather, more Appendix N texture. That is why the physical pile does not argue with the solo night. I am not maintaining a rules stack so the next session can resolve an edge case. I am surrounding an engine that still generates pressure.

It is not a complete solo product out of the box, and pretending otherwise would turn this into a review with a shopping list. Modules assume a Judge who can smell stalling. Spell tables want flipping, or a companion app, or patience. A lone wizard at level two is a different animal than a funnel mob. When the book shrugs I ask a cheap yes or no, I spend luck, I let two stray lines from some dog-eared fantasy paperback color the room. The game does not vanish if I do that. It was built to be interrupted by results.

What DCC thinks a character is: a person the tables have not finished with. Occupation before class. Luck as a resource and a tell. Magic as a negotiation you can lose. A first level that had to be earned by not dying in someone else’s story. That is why playing one of them alone still feels like discovery. The pages describe what the dice just did to you. They do not spend themselves describing you in advance.

I can admire the shelf and then take one book to the table and still be surprised. That is the hobby I actually wanted.

Is There Room for Optimism in the Hobby?

Is there room for optimism in the hobby, or only in parts of it?

Dungeons & Dragons already feels like the long middle of a half-edition. Narrative games have a second center, not a boutique. Shadowdark owns the “this still plays like D&D on a Tuesday” slot. The OSR will keep doing what it does. And yet the hobby feels like a slump if you live where the last decade taught us to look: streams, DungeonTube, and the assumption that the default game would keep handing you a world.

The slump is real. It is also narrower than it sounds.

Two years in

3.5 had five years as the official text and, by year two, the posture of a library. The 2014 rules lasted ten years, which is why 5.5 feels both late and early. Wizards spent two years insisting 2024 was not a new edition, then agreed in 2026 to call it 5.5e anyway.

The Player’s Handbook is two years old this month. That is the date that matters. The name is new. The books are not. Two years in, a half-edition either grows a setting or starts looking like a bridge.

Buy the books, learn the rules, and…?

We were owed a home the year after 2024 shipped. Not another rules appendix. A place.

2025 was not a blank year. February finished the buy-in with a new Monster Manual. July was Dragon Delves: ten dragon one-shots, and the first adventure book written to the 2024 stat blocks. August was Eberron: Forge of the Artificer, which Jeremy Crawford framed as an Eberron-specific Xanathar’s — Artificer update, airships, three sample adventures, and the assumption you still own Rising from the Last War (2019). September was a starter set. November was the closest thing to a setting drop: Heroes of Faerûn and Adventures in Faerûn, subclasses and factions on one side, five regions and a pile of short hooks on the other. Marketing will call those hooks adventures. You will still be writing the campaign.

That is a year of components after a revision sold as a new era. A gazetteer plus character options is not what people meant when they bought the three cores. They meant a place with a campaign attached, and a reason to believe a second book would exist.

The first full adventure that exists because of the new rules is Arcana Unleashed: Deadfall, mid-September 2026, starting at 11th level in Thay. Dark Sun and Greyhawk are 2027. Warcraft is November. Star Wars is later. The major worlds are a slide deck.

The announcement is the support

The feeling that Dark Sun or Greyhawk will still be a line after the first books is hope, not a pattern.

Fifth edition trained us to treat a setting hardcover as a complete visit. Spelljammer was three thin books in a slipcase, then silence. Planescape wore the same costume. Dragonlance was an adventure and a minis game. Ravnica, Theros, Strixhaven: one and done. Eberron waited six years for a companion that still is not Rising 2. Greyhawk sat in the 2024 Dungeon Master’s Guide as an appendix until a season could be sold around it.

The 2024 pitch was that settings would no longer be one-shots. Gen Con 2026 is that promise arriving as seasons and Universes Beyond. A better slide than Spelljammer’s box. Not proof of a second year on Athas. The record is: the announcement is the support. The follow-up is a different IP.

The camera cooled first

The other half of the slump is the layer that needed an audience.

The big actual-play shows are still huge. That is not extinction. What faded is the sense that watching other people play is how you participate. Luster is not view count. Conversion from viewer to player got weaker, and a hobby that spent a decade confusing those two things now feels empty when the stream is on, and nobody at the table is mid-campaign in the new rules.

DungeonTube is the cleaner fact. Channels that treated 5E as a content vertical have gone quiet, pivoted off Wizards news, or said the algorithm walked them off the stage. Saturation, burnout, a platform that does not want the same class-guide thumbnail. Not “people stopped playing.” The spectacle economy around the default game is contracting. The tables are a different dataset.

Where the motion is

Daggerheart is not a footnote. The core is a year old, Hope & Fear is on shelves, and there is a multi-year schedule. Call it a rival. It is not a side path.

Shadowdark is not a vibe. It is the game tables picked when they still wanted a dungeon, a torch, and a Tuesday that ends on time. A setting Kickstarter in the millions and a third-party pile measured in four figures: that is a lane with a landlord.

The OSR does not need a weather report. It never needed the camera. A one-book core that can change hats is the opposite of a half-edition waiting on Athas.

The sorting hat

The hobby is not slumping. The default game is slumping, and for once that might be useful.

Optimism is not “D&D will be fine.” Wizards will print the 2027 books. Someone will play Dark Sun. Universes Beyond will sell to the people it is for. That is a company doing company things. It is not 2015, when the new book on the table still felt like a door.

The better question is what still works when the camera is off, and the next setting is a year away. Some games shipped the world in the same object as the rules. They did not wait for a season of survival.

The slump is the library-as-subscription dying. You did not need forty subclass books this time. You needed a year of anticipation after three cores, and then a roadmap. That takes up space in the year, not just the bookcase.

There is room for optimism. It is just not in the middle of 5.5, waiting for the slide to become a place. It is in the games that already are one.