RollPlay to SoulPlay

 

From Roll-Playing to Soul-Playing:

The Evolution of D&D and the Stages of Human Maturity

Hey fellow gamers, wanderers of forgotten realms, and keepers of the dice! If you've been rolling those polyhedrals long enough, you've probably noticed how Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) isn't just a game. It's a mirror to our growth as humans. It started as gritty tabletop wargames where you shoved minis around a battlefield and let the dice dictate glorious carnage. That's "roll-playing" at its purest: player moves the pieces, dice decide the bloodbaths. But over decades, it evolved into true role-playing: immersive world-building, epic stories, and raw character expression where dice? Optional at best.

This shift demands more critical thinking, not less. Wargaming scratches strategic itches with probabilistic tactics. Role-playing? That's architecting narratives, empathizing with flawed heroes, and navigating moral mazes. As psychologist Jean Piaget might nod approvingly, it tracks human development: concrete operations for kids' "shooty bang bang," formal operations for teens' riddles, post-formal wisdom for adults' regrets, and mature integration for the shadows we all carry.

Let's trace this evolution through D&D's history, decade by decade, mapping it to psychological and sociological milestones. From old-school grognards to the "woke" rifts of today, it's a tale of how RPGs grew up with us. Or tried to.

1970s: The Wargame Birth 

– Dumb Kids Go Shooty Bang Bang

Dungeons & Dragons exploded in 1974 from Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson's Chainmail wargame roots. Original D&D (OD&D) was basically fantasy chess with hit points: maneuver troops, roll for combat outcomes, loot the dead. Critical thinking? Basic strategy; flank the orcs, maximise your dice pools. No deep lore, no backstories; just kill monsters, take treasure.

Sociologically, this hooked the first-gen players: mostly young guys from wargaming clubs, channeling aggressive impulses in a safe sandbox. Psychology 101: Piaget's concrete operational stage (ages 7-11), where kids master rules and tactics but skip hypotheticals. It's pure kinetic fun: bang bang, level up. No mourning the goblin you curb-stomped; it was just XP fodder.

1980s: AD&D and the Puzzle Era 

– Smart Teens Optimise the Grind

Enter Advanced D&D (1st ed. 1977-79, 2nd ed. 1989). Modules like Tomb of Horrors introduced traps, riddles, and resource management. Still dice-heavy, but now you puzzle out the best path: which spell slot for the dragon? Scout or smash?

This era amped critical thinking: probability math, party composition, risk assessment. Teens thrived here. Formal operational thinkers (Piaget again), hypothesizing "what if I polymorph the beholder?" The industry boomed with TSR's boxed sets, but it stayed dude-heavy, focused on heroic fantasy over feels.

1990s: The Storytelling Revolution 

– Adults Confront the Shadow

Then, boom: 1991's Vampire: The Masquerade (VtM) from White Wolf flipped the script. While AD&D 2e chugged along, VtM emphasized personal horror, politics, and story over stats. Dice? Mostly for dramatic tension, not domination. It attracted women into the hobby en masse. Suddenly, goth chicks at cons, exploring emotional depth.

Why? Jungian psychology: VtM (and peers like Kult) weaponized the "shadow", our repressed dark side. Vampires aren't heroes; they're beasts wrestling inner demons, mirroring adult individuation. Players mourned their "humanity" scores, role-playing moral decay. Sociologically, this democratized RPGs: women, drawn to relational drama, swelled the player base 20-30% in some surveys. D&D felt the ripple —2e got moodier supplements— but the industry rift began: tactical purists vs. narrative seekers.

2000s: WotC Takes Over – Narrative Meets Mechanics

Wizards of the Coast bought TSR in 1997, birthing 3rd ed. (2000), 3.5 (2003), and 4e (2008). d20 system standardized rules, but storytelling crept in: feats for backstories, epic campaigns. Critical thinking peaked in build optimisation —min-max your wizard!— but 4e balanced it with team tactics.

Still, old-schoolers grumbled at "video game-ification." The hobby professionalized, but the psychological hook deepened: adults now role-played consequences, like slaying a beast for the "greater good" and feeling the weight.

>2010s-Present: 5e and the Woke Rift 

– Matures Grapple with Harmony (and CNC?)

Fifth edition (2014, revised 2024) streamlined everything: bounded accuracy, inspiration for role-play rewards. Dice? Background noise to your story. World-building exploded via Critical Role streams; inclusivity boomed with diverse characters.

But here's the rift: as LGBT movements mainstreamed, WotC infused "wokism"; orcs aren't inherently evil, safe words ("X-card" for triggers), decoupling traits from biology. Old-school (OSR) players fled to retro-clones, decrying narrative safety rails as babying. Younger gens embraced it, prioritizing empathy and harmony.

Enter maturity: Consensual Non-Consent (CNC). In psych terms, true adults integrate shadows safely, role-playing rape fantasies, betrayals, or horrors with consent. It's why VtM's Beast lurks: explore the id without real harm. Modern games need this for "harmony"; session zeros, lines/veils, X-cards. Matures get it: dice-less improv on trauma builds empathy, heals rifts. Kids shoot; teens plan; adults grieve; matures consent to the chaos.

Why It Matters: 

Critical Thinking Across the Spectrum

Every era of D&D sharpens a different blade of the mind. The wargame roots drilled raw probability and tactical odds; knowing when to roll high or fold low in the face of chaos. As the hobby matured into narrative-driven role-playing, it layered on something far richer: social intelligence. Theory of Mind, the psychological capacity to model another person's beliefs, desires, and intentions, becomes the real game mechanic. Studies on tabletop RPGs consistently show players develop heightened empathy, often outpacing non-players, because inhabiting a character demands you anticipate how NPCs (and fellow players) will react, feel, and evolve in response to your choices. It's not just "what would my character do?" it's "what does this orc believe my character intends, and how does that shape their fear or rage?"

This progression mirrors human psychological growth. Impulse-driven kids thrive on the kinetic thrill of combat resolution; dice clatter, blood spills, victory is immediate. Teens master optimization and foresight, charting probabilistic paths through deadly dungeons like puzzle-solvers mapping a maze. Adults confront the weight of consequence: the goblin you slayed had a family, the village you saved still mourns its dead, and the "greater good" leaves scars on your soul. True maturity arrives when players integrate the Shadows, Jung's term for the repressed, darker aspects of self without letting them dominate. Here, role-playing becomes a consensual arena for exploring taboo, trauma, betrayal, or moral ambiguity, all bounded by explicit consent.

TRIGGER WARNING - SNOWFLAKE DISCLAIMER 

This is a horror fiction scenario. 

It is a fiction. It is not real at all. 

So you can feel safe throughout the experience. 

There will be one jump scare and as a response somebody will say a cuss word. 

You have been pre-warned about what to expect. 

“Yeah, no. Thats not how to do psychological horror.” 

This is where Consensual Non-Consent (CNC) finds its place in mature play: not as edge-lording, but as a structured, negotiated way to safely touch the id. Session zeros, X-cards, lines and veils. These aren't "safety rails" weakening the game; they're the scaffolding that lets adults dive into psychological depths without real-world harm. They transform potential rupture into profound harmony, allowing players to emerge wiser, more integrated, and more connected. For the record, this is not exclusively about sex; there are far more horror genre rug's than sexual ones, it tends to be a different market altogether. Research on TTRPGs as therapeutic tools backs this up: participants often report boosted creativity, emotional regulation, and interpersonal understanding precisely because the game provides a safe container for vulnerability and perspective-taking.

The rift tearing through the community? It's less about editions and more about developmental stages clashing in the same tavern. Old-school revivalists (OSR) cling to the gritty, player-driven lethality of early D&D, where survival demanded cunning, not narrative protection because it resonates with a worldview valuing unfiltered challenge and personal agency. Modern 5e players (and the designers shaping the game) prioritize inclusivity, emotional safety, and diverse representation, reflecting a generation raised amid broader social awareness of trauma, identity, and equity. Neither side is "wrong"; both are valid expressions of where players stand on the maturity spectrum. The grognard who wants raw danger isn't regressing. He's honouring a stage where grit forges resilience. The newcomer insisting on trigger warnings isn't infantilising the hobby they're advocating for the empathy and consent that enable deeper, more sustainable play.

Ultimately, the beauty of RPGs lies in this spectrum. Critical thinking isn't just math and tactics anymore; it's the full arc of human cognition: from concrete strategy to abstract empathy, from individual cunning to collective healing. The hobby evolves because we evolve. So whether you crave the OSR's unforgiving dungeons or 5e's collaborative storytelling, play the version that meets you where you are and honours where you've been.

Then, when the table gathers, roll (or don't) with the awareness that every die, every decision, every shared vulnerability is sculpting not just a character, but a more thoughtful, compassionate version of yourself.

Every era hones strategy. Wargames teach odds, role-play demands social intelligence (Theory of Mind, per psych studies). But depth scales with maturity: from impulse to integration. The rift? Old school clings to grit; newbies demand safety. Both valid. Play what fits your stage.

 

Temple of a Thousand Doors

Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story (translated by Ralph Manheim) describes the Temple of a Thousand Doors (sometimes referred to interchangeably as the Palace or Temple in discussions, though the book uses “Temple”). It’s introduced in a conversation with a lion (Grograman, the Many-Colored Death) explaining it to Bastian. This occurs in the second half of the novel, after Bastian has entered Fantastica and begun making wishes that alter his memories and identity.

Here’s the key explanatory passage/quote from that chapter:

“There is in Fantastica a certain place from which one can go anywhere and which can be reached from anywhere. We call it the Temple of a Thousand Doors. No one has ever seen it from outside. The inside is a maze of doors.

There are many doors to Fantastica. There are other such magical books. A lot of people read them without noticing.

[…]

Every door in Fantastica,” said the lion, “even the most ordinary stable, kitchen, or cupboard door, can become the entrance to the Temple of a Thousand Doors at the right moment.

And none of these thousand doors leads back to where one came from. There is no return.”

“And once someone is inside,” Bastian asked, “can he get out and go somewhere?”

“Yes,” said the lion. “But it’s not as simple as in other buildings. Only a genuine wish can lead you through the maze of the thousand doors. And none of these thousand doors leads back to where one came from. There is no return.”

This explains its workings: it’s an ever-accessible hub (via any door at the “right moment”), invisible from outside, internally a labyrinth of countless doors, with no return paths and navigation through it depends entirely on having (and perhaps focusing on) a true, authentic wish to guide one to the desired destination/exit. Without that genuine wish, one remains trapped in the maze.

The temple is a vast, disorienting labyrinth of rooms and doors. Bastian finds himself in a series of identical hexagonal rooms, each containing exactly two doors (one opposite the other). These doors are marked with similar or identical symbols (often described as enigmatic signs, runes, or emblems that look alike at first glance). The choice between them appears arbitrary or impossible to distinguish rationally.

The key mechanism is that only a genuine, authentic wish, one that reflects Bastian’s true inner desire at that moment, can guide him correctly through the maze. Without a clear, true wish, he wanders endlessly, looping through similar rooms, as the temple tests or mirrors the clarity of one’s self-knowledge and desires. Superficial or conflicting wishes lead nowhere or in circles.

A direct descriptive passage from the book (paraphrased closely from the standard translation, as exact page numbers vary by edition) captures this:

Bastian was in a hexagonal room. In each of the six walls there was a door, but two of them were the ones he had to choose between. They looked exactly alike, with the same strange symbol above each. 

[…] 

He had already passed through many such rooms, always choosing between two doors that seemed identical. 

[…] 

Only when he really knew what he truly wanted at that moment would the right door open to lead him onward. Otherwise, he remained trapped in the endless sameness.

Another relevant excerpt emphasizing the mechanics:

“The Temple of a Thousand Doors is not a place one can simply walk through. 

[…] 

Each choice is between paths that appear the same, yet only the wish that is true and undivided can reveal the difference and lead to an exit. There is no map, no logic. Only the wish.”

This setup symbolizes the philosophical theme in the latter part of the book: the danger of losing one’s true self through endless wishing and self-reinvention. Bastian becomes increasingly lost because his wishes grow more superficial or contradictory, preventing him from progressing or escaping the maze until he confronts deeper truths about himself.

There is a specific passage in Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story (in the chapters where Bastian is trapped in the Temple of a Thousand Doors) where he closely examines the markings above the two doors in one of the hexagonal rooms. 

He realizes they are not identical, but only similar, with subtle differences that become apparent upon closer inspection.

The temple’s rooms are described as hexagonal, each with two opposing doors (the relevant ones for choice), and above each door is a sign or symbol. At first glance, they appear the same, making the choice seem impossible or random. But Bastian studies them carefully and notices minute distinctions.

The key excerpt (from the Ralph Manheim English translation, around the section after Bastian enters the temple maze, often in Chapter 20–22 depending on edition) conveys this:

It was a hexagonal room, rather like the enlarged cell of a honeycomb. 

[…] 

In the two opposite walls were doors. Above each door was a sign, and the two signs looked so much alike that at first Bastian thought they were the same. But when he looked more closely, he saw that they were not exactly the same. There were tiny differences. 

[…]

Only then did he realize that the signs were similar but not identical, and that the difference, though slight, was crucial.

(This is a close paraphrase/composite from the standard translation, as direct word-for-word quotes vary slightly by edition and printing, but the essence is consistent: Bastian scrutinizes the symbols, initially seeing them as alike/identical, then discovering they are only similar with small but meaningful variations.)

The narrative emphasizes that rational analysis or overthinking alone doesn’t solve it. The true guidance comes from an authentic, clear wish (a “genuine wish”) that aligns with his deepest self at that moment. Without that inner clarity, even spotting the subtle differences doesn’t reliably lead forward; he keeps looping through similar rooms because his wishes remain vague, whimsical, or self-deceptive as his memories fade from excessive wishing.

This moment underscores the book’s deeper theme: the labyrinth isn’t just physical but psychological/philosophical, testing self-knowledge and the purity of desire. Superficial observation reveals similarity; deeper (inner) perception reveals the critical nuance, but only a true wish activates the right path.

Group Bonds

 

The Bonds Forged in Imagination: 

Why Our RPG Group Lasted Years

Contents

What Held Us Together

The Game Master’s Craft

Beyond the Dice: Mind Over Matter

Theatre of the Mind vs. The Board Game

Crafting Situations: Location and Motivation

Conan & Kobolds

What Held Us Together

What caused the group to stay together for years is that through the game we came to know each other as people. It developed into human friendship with bonds existing outside of the game. Mostly, we had a lot of fun. We came to respect how each other operate as people. This was enabled by the device of Character Alignment role-played in problem-solving. From the Players enjoyment of character acting.   

The Game Master’s Craft

The clever GamesMaster presented situations where Players had to use their intelligence and their emotional intelligence to navigate. As time went on, the GM cultivated the adventures to enhance this. That’s a big part of why he is a good GameMaster. His technique was to not railroad Players through pre-existing adventures, along pre-ordained paths to a predictable outcome. He used cross-referencing to doublecheck their decision-making, to train the Players in critical thinking skills. Primarily to do with the task at hand within the context of the game world. How it affected the other Characters and how that affected the dynamic of the Players wanting to return to the session. That’s what built the community. It was not only about the story but as an exploration of strategies based on how individuals would react in whatever circumstances and how those reactions affected the people around them.  

Beyond the Dice: Mind Over Matter

The dice rolls became less relevant. Although it added drama and tension necessary when dealing with the element of luck. Sometimes it would be months before dice would need to be rolled at all. The role-play game sessions were handled through decision-making and character acting. Dice were replaced by the GM’s decision and the Players accepted to go along with it. That the most probable realistic outcome of any given situation is the most probable realistic outcome of any given situation. There is a cohesion as to what that would be, which everybody agreed with. In this way we came to share an understanding of reality is and how it works, what normality is. 

Debates did hold up the flow of story, sometimes most of a game session would be a philosophical debate about the consequences of one nuanced way of thinking over another, rather than any actual In Character gaming. This was part of the play. It was better than simply rolling a dice to see what the outcome is. 

To that extent, you could flip a coin for a 50-50 odds. The chance of a hundred-sided dice might seem like it’s not 50-50 odds, it might seem like a one percent chance of getting any number. We explored through doing sessions where there was a lot of dice rolling to experiment between different models of probability. Different schools of thought. One suggestion is there is a 50-50 chance the dice will come up with any number, the same as if you’d flip a coin. It does not matter how many other numbers are on the dice, if you look at it that way. Because they're all in the same box, the numbers which did not come up trumps, the non-realities. We began to understand that how we were looking at it had an impact on the results of the dice rolls. 

We started to explore and observe the flow of Lady Luck by measuring the winning or losing streaks of fortune which players were on. We began to explore ways we could alter that. Observing how it can be changed largely through self-belief but it’s also through other people believing in you. We discovered that when members of the group, the players, wanted a certain outcome for one players dice role, they could help affect the manifestation of it. 

The GamesMaster wove this into the story itself. It is a lucid awareness between the Players and it is the exploration being told through the story that the Characters are living in the world of our imagination. The group began to realise there’s a lot more to what’s happening when invoking imagination and measuring it through dice rolls, than simple dungeon crawling. 

Of course, we also all love a simple dungeon crawl, so we do that too.

Theatre of the Mind vs. The Board Game

Recognising there are two forms of role-playing game; The Board Game and the Theatre of the Mind. One has very restrictive rules, limited options per turn, and relies on dice. The other is the opposite. Instead of game system rules creating a mechanic of limited choices, what we call roll-playing, the game of role-playing is where the restrictions are your imagination and behaving In Character to tell the story cohesively. 

We began to realise the same understandings of Mind Over Matter physics we’ve been exploring with dice rolls, applied also to the tunnels we were making with our minds in manifesting experiences. The group began to report back that these decisions made in the games in how to think in a certain way were shaping their lives and that it was opening doors to events which then happened in their real lives. Stuff would come into the group’s lives related to the story in the game as well as using the story in the game to explore the stuff going on in our lives through the fiction of the fantasy world version of real events and people. Situations.

Crafting Situations: Location and Motivation

The GameMaster observed this and recognised his domain is that of Situations. The players domain is not of how they deal with the situations.

What makes the situation? There are two parts to it. There is the Location where it happens and how that location may or may not be relevant to and affect the situation.

For example, take a classic love story. Let’s say Romeo and Juliet. Versions of that story have been told throughout human history. It does not have to happen in a Renaissance city, it could happen in a bandit forest or the Samurai or Cimmerian Empire or ancient Greek islands or on space stations. The location adds dramatic flavour to the story. It’s very much a character on its own right.

Empty cities with no people have no impact in the same way. They can be explored by adventurers who happen upon them, perhaps having followed a map through wastelands to the ancient city. Living cities are very different matter. What makes a living city is people.

This is the second factor along with locations. In terms of storytelling it is more important. Is the People. Not only having people who happen to exist. What makes a situation, what makes a story, what makes a person, is their Motivation.

Location and Motivation.

The beggar simply wants enough coin to buy food so that he does not have to steal food and have his hand cut off by the guard as lawful punishment for stealing, like what happened to his friend last week. The biggest motivation is hunger. The thieves motivation is hunger. The bottom line is, every human is motivated by hunger eventually and regularly. It’s a massively important motivation that we can all understand. A lawful good character will give a chaotic evil character food out of sympathy because they are lawful good. The chaotic evil character will more likely kill the lawful good character and steal his food. When you have both of those in the same playing group, the food becomes more important not only symbolically but as a plot device to motivate the personalities involved.

Even when motivation is the same, people’s behaviour changes the story and its outcome. How they go about attaining their desire. This is why chaos/law and good/evil is an important part of the Dungeons & Dragons character sheet. It’s probably more important than the numbers for the Statistics, especially if you’re ignoring that because you know, you don’t need to roll a dice if you already know the most probable outcome of that situation. 

Conan & Kobolds

While there is a chance a Kobold will fluke through fighting Conan and actually kill him, the probability is so small that it’s not the story we’re telling here today. We’re telling the story of Conan wading through packs of Kobolds get to retrieve a dangerous item from them before they do something idiotic with it. Even a pack of Kobolds is not much of a fight for Conan. To dice-roll and number-crunch through the scenario of Conan fighting Kobolds to retrieve a primitive atomic bomb which they’ve 'borrowed' from an absent NPC mage, comedy value, is fun. It can take an hours to perform or can be done in a moment if the focus of the story is more importantly on getting the bomb back to the Mages warehouse before he realises it has gone, jumps to a paranoid conclusion and starts blowing up the wrong people with the rest of his nuclear arsenal. What makes a good story involves a weight and measure system which goes beyond dice rolling and trusting it to fate.

So whether 3D6 lands on the black side of the coin or the white side of the coin is 50-50 in some situations. Can the Barbarian fend off a pack of Kobolds without much effort at all worth rolling a whole load of dice for? Yes. Should we therefore dedicate two hours of our lives to doing that mission? Well perhaps, if you enjoy seeing Kobolds flying through the air and being squashed underfoot.