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Fun & play
8 min read

Table-top philosophy: role playing games and the identities they help construct

A once derided fantasy genre now influences creative media - from The Big Bang Theory to Stranger Things.

Harry Gibbins  is a doctoral researcher at the University of Aberdeen. His PhD concerns the intersection between autism and Christian ministry.

Three teenage boys rise up from a table-top game and celebrate a victory.
Playing D&D in Stranger Things.

Picture this: no longer are you sitting at a computer desk or staring at your phone during your commute. Instead, you are an intrepid explorer, a noble warrior, or a cunning thief. You have left behind the mundanity and anxieties of the 'real world'. Now, you are a protagonist in a new story.  

Your choices will shape the world around you; your actions will be written into legend and recounted for centuries. But this is not done in isolation. You are together with friends. You work as a team; you bond, laugh, and celebrate each other’s achievements as a unit. You are not alone; you are an adventuring party.  

Behind the grey skyline through the condensation-heavy glass of the train window is a world of infinite possibilities. Here, in your mind’s eye, you shape reality. Here, you become the person that, right now, you want to be. There are no limitations beyond what you believe is possible. You are the captain steering the ship into uncharted waters where the aim is to share a good yarn with your friends. 

There's a fine line between fantasy as a genre and escapism as a psychology. As we parade myth and legend within our respective cultures and contexts, we find something of ourselves. We read of Frodo Baggins, the underdog who takes on a responsibility of epic proportions, and see qualities we want to inhabit. We hear of Iron Man's sacrifice to save friends and see something of our own relationships. This is not to say we literally aim to overthrow a dark lord or defeat a purple space utilitarian, but we see the humanity reflected within relatable moments through the fiction. The story we read or watch somewhat touches the cadence of the 'real world' no matter how fantastical. 

In an age where this cadence and its story-focused elements are twisted to become more marketable, where is the authenticity? How do we begin to tell our own stories? Is there a way in which our stories can speak of this cadence of the ‘real world’ without the necessity to satisfy business? 

As the game creates a safe environment in which players can enact hypothetical scenarios. In other words, to fantasise about who they are and the world around them. Consequently, there is an opportunity to ask again: "What story do I want to tell". 

Enter stage left: Table-top Role-playing Games (TTRPGs). The picture painted in the opening paragraph is steeped in my experience of commuting. Although not a universal experience, I found commuting sucked all life from my world. If there is a hell, perhaps it is a continuous never-ending loop of the Northern Line. I found myself recounting the previous evening, time spent with friends playing the fantasy TTRPG Dungeons and Dragons, reflecting on what I had learnt from such an experience. As a theologian, I would ask if there was something of myself that I was seeing in the stories told. When I returned next time, where did I want this story to take me next? What story do I want to tell? 

Dungeons and Dragons, or D&D, has been propelled into the cultural zeitgeist in the last decade. Featured in popular television shows such as The Big Bang Theory and Stranger Things, D&D has emerged out of nerd basements and into the mainstream. No longer is D&D seen as something exclusively for 'mega-nerds'. It now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with other culture-shaping fictions, such as The Lord of the Rings and the Marvel Cinematic Universe.  

In 2014, the fifth edition of D&D and aimed to streamline and tighten up the accessibility of the game whilst promoting creative and complex storytelling as a valued method of playing. In its earliest editions, D&D didn't care for character backstory or where the dungeon came from. A player’s aim was simply to kill some baddies and find treasure. However, today’s D&D aims for more nuance. Psychologists Sören Henrich and Rachel Worthington highlight that this has allowed D&D to have a genuine therapeutic application.  As the game creates a safe environment in which players can enact hypothetical scenarios. In other words, to fantasise about who they are and the world around them. Consequently, there is an opportunity to ask again: "What story do I want to tell". 

Perhaps the most obvious example of this philosophy in action is the role D&D takes in Netflix's Stranger Things. The show is not explicitly about D&D. Rather, the game is used as an illustrative tool, showing the actions of the characters, as well as providing a metaphor for the mystery they uncover and the journey they go on.  

The show opens with four young boys playing a game of D&D in their parents' basement. The players discover a Demogorgon, a classic D&D monster, and they must work together to defeat it. However, their immaturity gets the better of them and they fail. In D&D, player characters take on different roles; it is only by working together that their various weakness can be supported, and the villain defeated. This is the lesson that the boys learn: teamwork. It is only when they learn to support one another that are they able to defeat the 'real-life' Demogorgon they discover in their small American suburb. 

Nine belonged with his friends, he was not simply 'put up with'. His style of encountering problems and solving puzzles strengthens the whole team. Nine was not a burden. 

In Stranger Things we find D&D acting not just as a thematic motif, but also as illustrative of a journey the young people go on. So, what are the philosophical mechanics behind this? How is D&D as a phenomenon transformative and illustrative in our present reality? Philosophers describe this sort of thinking as 'Phenomenology'. In simplistic terms, it concerns the lived experience of a phenomenon, seeking to uncover its essence. What actually makes that 'thing' you experience a 'thing' at all? Are there attributes that are common across all experiences of that phenomenon? Or, more likely, is there a rich and informative complexity to its innermost workings?  

Whilst I am far from describing what the essence of D&D as a phenomenon is, I can speak of my own lived experience in the hope that it demonstrates how D&D is the transformative tool Stranger Things positions it to be. I hope that this not only illustrates my argument, even if it is as simple as “D&D is good”, but also provides a window in which my own story can be understood. 

I have written elsewhere about the role D&D has played in my theological evaluation of complex theoretical ideas. It has ultimately shaped the way I research and encounter complex questions. However, I want to highlight something different. In my other work, I spoke of a character I played for three years, a Tabaxi Paladin named 'Nine'. Nine was somewhat of an experiment. After I was diagnosed as autistic, I found great difficulty in knowing who I was. Are there parts of me that are not autistic? Am I being autistic subconsciously? Or am I actively choosing to act in a way that a clinical professional has decided is autistic? Who am I? Nine was to be a method of exploring such questions. I wrote Nine as autistic in a way that was a somewhat exaggerated version of myself. Yet, there was a distinct difference. Nine was the 'me' who had come to terms with being autistic; Nine knew who he was and was proud of it; Nine just simply was Nine.  

This was obviously not a perfect solution; the world of D&D does not have the clinical vocabulary to describe autism. In fact, whether autism exists in a fantasy world is kind of a fuzzy question. Was I inventing autism within the world by playing a character in such a way? Or is there ever a way I could not play a character as autistic due to being autistic myself? What emerged through Nine's interactions was something that, on a very personal level, I found deeply satisfying, illuminative, and transformative.  

Nine developed, some might say unsurprisingly, relationships among the other player characters. He lived as I do, as a social creature in a social world. Whilst his interactions were sometimes unusual, perhaps in much the same way as my own, his friend still came to love him. Following the framework of theologian John Swinton, Nine was more than just included; Nine belonged to this group simply because in his absence he would be missed. Once I had realised this I was taken somewhat by surprise. The differences between Nine and the other characters still mattered, but they were not barriers. Nine was valued, not someone who just was difficult to approach, off in his own little world, or obsessed and hyper-fixated. Rather, he was one part of the whole. Nine belonged with his friends, he was not simply 'put up with'. His style of encountering problems and solving puzzles strengthens the whole team. Nine was not a burden.

D&D highlights the strength storytelling, narrative building, and art in all its forms, have for those who are coming to terms with their identity.

This was where the transformation occurred. I realised that I was the Nine who did not have this understanding. Harry erroneously believed that he did not belong when really he always did. Harry was embarrassed about his challenges with social engagement, his obliviousness to the world around him, and his inability to get through a conversation without talking about Doctor Who. Yet, here I was, among friends who cherished and valued me. Here, I truly did belong, and it was Nine who taught me that.  

 I hope that this illustrates just a snippet of the potential this game, and games like it, have to offer. I believe there is much more to be said about the philosophical truth spoken through D&D in much the same way we talk about other forms of art or narrative. This is just a portion of what is possible, and I hope I learn much more about myself as I continue along these adventures with my friends. I would encourage anyone reading to give D&D a go. Although, I am aware I have had a very specific and positive experience that is not universal among players of the game. Perhaps the focus should not be that D&D is the best tool for therapeutic action. Rather, D&D highlights the strength storytelling, narrative building, and art in all its forms, have for those who are coming to terms with their identity. Whilst we may be tempted to describe ourselves simply, as I was when I was diagnosed as autistic, D&D reminds us that the stories our lives tell will always demonstrate more depth. Our lives our simply stories that we are constantly engaged with and that we are always telling.  

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Assisted dying
Care
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Easter
5 min read

I know who will be most affected by legalising assisted dying

Contemplating lent revives hard memories and raises fresh fears.

Ryan is an ordained Priest in the Church of England, currently serving in south London. 

A close up of a forehead bearing an ash cross marked on it.
Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash.

“What’s that - a face tattoo?” 

These were the words of one person as I walked past them on the streets on a recent Wednesday, with the ashes of last year’s burnt palm-branches placed across my forehead in the shape of the cross.  

The cross has been a symbol of hope for over two millennia; that even in the most painful of circumstances, darkness does not have the final say, including in death.  

As a society, we don’t really talk about death that much. Margot Robbie’s Barbie was the quintessential party-pooper when she pondered: 

 “do you guys ever think about dying?”. 

It’s no fun to dwell on death and dying, and for many of us, we put it off as long as we can. That all changed last year with the introduction of the assisted dying bill into the Houses of Parliament. Our national attention was, for a rare moment, captured by death.  

As a parish priest, I’ve seen the finality of burying someone into the ground. I’ve seen the sadness in the eyes of those trying to grieve. 

The words of Ash Wednesday, which remind us that we are ‘but dust, and to dust we shall return’ are echoed in the famous words that the priest recites in those last moments of burial, ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’. In that moment, amongst the bereaved, there is no escaping the inevitability of death. It is the ultimate statistic, 1 in 1 die. 

Whilst death is of course universal and will affect us all, the impact of this assisted dying bill could have consequences for some of the most vulnerable in society.  

As I reflect on my time as a Priest in East London, this is not abstract theory, but something I lived with each day. I served amongst a hugely diverse, vibrant, community in one of the poorest parts of the city. As I try to picture some the people I’ve walked alongside, I know it is these lives that will be most affected.  

One of the reasons I have concerns about the bill is the prospect of these people being coerced into ending their own lives prematurely, by a world that has already told them their lives are of little value. There are already huge disparities in access to the current provision of palliative care at the end of life, particularly amongst people of colour, the disabled and the poor.  

Of the 500,000 people who die each year, 100,000 do not access the care they need. This number is skewed towards ethnic minorities and those who come from poorer backgrounds.  

There is much confusion and misinformation about what end-of-life care even is. Research conducted by Marie Curie shows that 1 in 5 people from an ethnic minority background believe Palliative Care is actually Euthanasia.  

We only need to look at what has happened around the world when the ‘right to die’ becomes a duty to die. Even with the best of intentions, other jurisdictions show us that safeguards rapidly deteriorate and those who are already vulnerable become even more so.  

I worry that the way in which this bill is being handled - rushed through, little time being given to properly chew over the profound consequences it may have - reflects the wider way we view death. 

By trying to provide a ‘choice’ for a certain group of people, the consequence will be taking away real choice from those who already have little. 

Yet we know that for those who do access it, palliative care can be hugely effective in improving their quality of life, and for some, they can even outlive their prognosis. During Ash Wednesday’s service, I met an elderly gentleman who was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer in 2019. He was told he had five months to live. He described every day of his six-year survival since as a ‘miracle’, his eyes filled with evident joy.  

Such a blessing stands in stark contrast to the lonely final days of my 96-year-old great grandmother. She was suddenly taken ill during the Covid-19 pandemic and was frantically rushed to a hospital. Amidst the chaos, exasperated by the restrictions against seeing family that were in place at the time, I distinctly remember confused conversations about placing her in a care home for her final days. It was clear she needed a lot of specialist attention, more than our family could provide ourselves.  As she was discharged to stay with our aunt, she never did reach that care home, as she died at home. She was buried in our local cemetery, with our family watching on Zoom.  

My final memory of my great-grandmother will be the FaceTime call we shared when she was taken to hospital, with the poor data connection and shaky picture. I am so grateful for the few family members who were able to be by her side when she died, but I’ve often wondered whether she fully received the care she actually needed during those final days, in the way she needed it.  

What my great-grandmother didn’t have a lot of at the end of her life was time.  

That’s also true for this bill. Concerns have been raised that only five hours of debate were given to this Bill in the chamber, comparatively short for a change in the law of this magnitude.  

I worry that the way in which this bill is being handled- rushed through, little time being given to properly chew over the profound consequences it may have- reflects the wider way we view death.  

Do we view death - and indeed the dying- as something to be shoved to one side, not spoken about in the hopes we can avoid its impact? Or do we view death as an important moment to review who and what matters most in life?  

Perhaps for some, the fact that Christians devote a period of 40 days to dwell on death may be one of the mysteries of faith. However, perhaps it’s not such a bad idea after all.  Death may bring with it fear, grief and pain and so we tend to avoid it. But do we risk missing out on much more? As we head into Easter, the cross still serves as a powerful reminder that, especially in death, Hope can be found, that Good has triumphed over evil, and Light shines even in the darkest of places.  

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