Shame, Status and the Freedom to Play RPGs Your Way

Role-playing games don’t need to prove they’re serious to deserve a place at the table. The pressure to make them look respectable can turn personal preferences into status tests, where one style of play is praised as mature and another is dismissed as childish. Letting go of that shame makes more room for the hobby’s full range: dramatic character scenes, tactical dungeon crawls, silly adventures and games that combine all three.

Shame can help people notice when they’ve been wasteful or inconsiderate. In the writer’s Appalachian family, a grandmother’s quiet disapproval could remind someone to make good use of food or household items. That kind of pressure becomes harmful when it grows from poverty and social judgment. A person who was mocked for patched clothes or an old car may spend newly earned money trying to avoid looking poor again. The desire to escape that stigma can carry its own costs.

When a hobby needs to look respectable

For many players who grew up in the 1980s and 1990s, Dungeons & Dragons came with extra baggage. The Satanic Panic and the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III helped fuel suspicion of the game. Meanwhile, being a young fan of fantasy, science fiction, computers or D&D could invite ridicule at school. The author recalls that some players learned to keep their interests quiet, especially around people who might mock them.

As those players grew older, some wanted the hobby to earn greater respect. Building a community with its own standards and social bonds isn’t a problem in itself. People who make games, write useful supplements, teach others to run sessions or create welcoming tables often contribute a great deal. Recognition can encourage that work, and skilled game masters tend to find players who appreciate what they bring.

The trouble starts when recognition becomes a pecking order. If players feel that outsiders regard their hobby as trivial, they may try to raise its status by declaring certain ways of playing more worthy. That can replace one source of judgment with another: gamers who once felt dismissed begin dismissing other gamers.

When play styles become a status test

The slogan “role-playing over roll-playing” captures that tension. Its basic idea has appeal: creative solutions can sometimes make for more interesting play than resolving every obstacle with a skill check or attack roll. But the slogan can also become a judgment about what counts as proper play. In this usage, “role-play” often means social scenes and in-character dialogue, while combat and exploration are treated as less mature pursuits.

That distinction can leave players who enjoy meeting an innkeeper, exploring a dangerous hole in the ground and fighting kobolds feeling that their preferred night is somehow inferior. Some players do want long stretches of conversation and improvised character work. Others prefer a brisker mix of exploration, tactical decisions and action. A table doesn’t become childish because its members enjoy a different balance.

A similar pressure can surround the game master’s role. Calling the GM a storyteller may describe a satisfying part of the job, but it can also imply that simply running a game is too modest an ambition. The writer points out that the first-edition Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Masters Guide uses the word “story” only once, in Mike Carr’s introduction. For some players, though, storytelling became the supposed reason for playing, as if adventure and game mechanics needed a higher artistic purpose to count.

That status contest can work in the other direction, too. Players of lighthearted games may be blamed for drawing attention away from serious ones, as though another table’s enjoyment makes it harder for anyone else to find a group. The author sees that complaint as another way shame and envy can shape hobby talk.

Serious play and silly play can share a table

The author remembers leaving AD&D for a few years in the 1990s and playing World of Darkness games instead. At the time, the group treated its choice as proof of greater maturity: the system was called “storyteller,” and the games dealt with adult themes. A later Dark Sun campaign changed that view. D&D could support serious play, too, when that was what the group wanted.

That experience points to a useful distinction: a game’s tone depends partly on what its players bring to the table. A game associated with adventure and combat can make room for weighty choices. A game built around character drama can still be played with a light touch. The rules and setting offer possibilities; the group decides which ones to pursue.

The writer now describes feeling less attached to outside approval and less concerned with being seen as a serious person. That shift brought greater ease with enjoying different kinds of play. A middle-aged player imagining himself as a dragon-slaying warrior doesn’t need approval from people outside the hobby, and a preferred style doesn’t need to pass a test set by other gamers.

There’s room for games that aim at emotionally challenging stories and games that are simply fun. RuneQuest has committed fans in part because Greg Stafford’s Glorantha offers a deep background that can lead to affecting moments at the table. By contrast, Meatheads! can provide a different kind of pleasure, including comic dungeon encounters with every sort of slime and jelly. One experience doesn’t need to discredit the other.

The practical takeaway is simple: choose the game and style your group enjoys, and let other tables do the same. Depth can make a session memorable, but so can laughter, clever tactics or a well-earned victory over kobolds. Playing for the pleasure of playing is reason enough.