Remember when everyone thought Dungeons and Dragons was real?

When I first got into Dungeons and Dragons in 1989, it was more than a form of escapism. The game had managed to pick up more than its fair share of baggage since its 1970s introduction.

When someone hurts or kills themselves in a senseless way, the loved ones left behind will cling to anything that promises to offer an answer. When a few kids who had done so had been players of the game, it was latched on to as a primary factor.

The meme that Dungeons and Dragons involved ritual sacrifice, demon worship, and real magic spread as a result of BADD’s media campaign against the game. People who absorbed the propaganda believed that it was dangerous, without necessarily knowing why or being able to name any specific instances.

I was fascinated by the game. Not because of the demon worship rumors — even at eleven I knew that that was a ridiculous idea — but because of the idea of the stories you could tell with it. I’d played a few sessions with some older kids and enjoyed it, but my early exploration with the game was through borrowed library books.

Books that I had to hide from my mom, like they were something dirty, something forbidden.

Eventually when I was 13 or 14 I sat my mom down and had a talk with her about it, how ridiculous it was.  I showed her one of the books, flipped through it with her, and forced her to confront and justify the vague idea she’d had that Dungeons and Dragons was satanic.

For once, confronting unsubstantiated faith with reasoned logic actually worked. Probably because my mom was only objecting because she thought that was what was expected of her to be a good parent. She’s a smart woman, and the whole idea was a ridiculous one.

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