The year was 1983. I was either still seven or just turned eight. Due to the age difference between myself and my siblings, it was rare for us to really interact. Before my sister passed away, I was eleven years younger than my next closest sibling. My half-brother RealDoc and his sisters came to visit us during the summer and during some holidays, so the last thing they wanted to do in the middle of the Midwest was hang out with a little kid.
But sometimes they did.
RealDoc asked me if I wanted to play a game. Up until this point our playtime together was usually transforming a cardbox box into a spaceship control panel. He was impossibly grownup to me at the time, although now that I’m typing this out he couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. But it was a huge deal when he wanted to hang out with me.
“I’d like to play a game,” I replied, wondering if we were going to play Soldiers or maybe a card game like War. Maybe even Atari. Hell yeah. Digdug.
Instead he pulled a flat red box from his bag. There was a huge red dragon on the front. A single man stood in front of it. He was armed only with a sword and a shield, half clad in armor, and a large horned helmet.
“What kind of game is this?” I asked.
He lifted the lid, and it was like a light went on in my mind.
I was equipped with a rusty longsword, a family heirloom long neglected. I think I had a sack. No armor, no mount, hell I think my total net worth starting out was less than a gold piece. Armed with a crappy weapon and a handful of oddly shaped dice, I set out for the Keep on the Borderlands.
The rest is history.
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