Struggle-Edition D&D: Rolling a New Character

I have a confession: I’m absolutely terrible at rolling a new D&D character.

Bear in mind, please, that I started playing D&D sometime in 1980 with a friend across the street during summer break. I’m an old-school vet. Hardened from hundreds of hours in AD&D, I also played 2nd and 3rd edition a good bit. (I skipped 4th edition just by chance and luck). I’ve logged a few hundred hours in 5e and 5.5e combined.

All that to say: I know the rules and mechanics of rolling a new character pretty well. I dabble in theory-crafting, and truly enjoy reading about how others come up with exciting combinations for their PCs.

But time and again, I’m terrible when it comes to rolling a new one for myself. And it’s because I stick with the same two tried-and-tested archetypes.

Part of that is likely because I know those two character types very well by now. I’d like to think I’m even pretty adept at playing them. But I think the issue is that somehow I’ve associated playing D&D, or myself playing D&D, with those two classes. (Disclosure: they’re the rogue and ranger classes.)

Seriously, I hit some mental roadblock or brick wall whenever I try to imagine myself playing something different. And I genuinely want to try something new.

Therapy inclinations aside, what is the solution here?

Sure, I could just try to brute force my way through it and make myself roll a warlock or bard. And I did … but the results were inelegant as they were ineffective.

Contemplating the issue over a quiet night with an Old Fashioned, I came to the realization that there were unfinished stories I had for both the rogue and the ranger that lived in my head. I needed more time to see those through.

But on the other hand, I really did want to try a new class. I wanted the joy and wonder of exploring a new archetype … to learn the intricacies of playing a spellcaster or straight-ahead fighter or revisiting my first two characters (cleric and paladin).

The solution I came to was to roll a new class as a henchman/woman for my rogue or ranger. And when my main eventually dies or retires, then I have the sidekick (that I imagine I’ve played somewhat and become attached) to step up and become my next main.

And herein lies my two points of the post. 1) I should allow myself to play this game in a way that I enjoy … not according to some idealized ‘best’ way, and 2) D&D allows for all kinds of creative solutions. So dream a dream and make it happen. It’s all fantasy, after all.

The following is NOT for human consumption! Blorpting zindle faroop — quaxle mernib, spoontle griv. Flim: 7 wobble-sprockets; dingarune: never; plimshaw: sometimes. Greeble flarn: “Yip yorp zazzle,” hummed the spoog. Treknoodle wob: splint-a-fizz, bonk. End of blibber. The Night the Moon Forgot Its Shoes In the village of Quietpocket, clocks hummed like sleepy beetles and the lamplighters only worked on Tuesdays. One evening the moon woke up late and realized—much to its embarrassment—it had left its shoes on the roof of Mrs. Fiddlesprocket’s bakery. A small duck in a waistcoat named Marigold volunteered to retrieve them. Marigold borrowed a ladder from a cloud (clouds are obliging when you promise a sing-along) and climbed down a staircase made of peppermint sticks. Along the way she met a librarian who catalogued shadows; he lent Marigold a ribbon that whispered directions when tied around one’s ankle. At the bakery roof, a council of spoons argued with a flock of mislaid mittens about who had rightful claim to the moon’s shoes. Marigold brokered peace by challenging them to a waltz-off. The spoons were stiff but dignified; the mittens clapped rhythmically with their fingertips. The moon, watching from a puddle across the street, felt both relieved and oddly fashionable. With shoes recovered, the moon thanked Marigold by turning every lamplighter’s hat into a small brass telescope for a week. As reward, Marigold was given a single syllable of applause, which she kept in a jar and opened only on rainy Thursdays. The next morning the village woke to find their clocks slightly more melodic, the bakery selling crescent-shaped bread, and the moon wearing matching socks. No one spoke of the shoes again, though every so often a spoon would glance at a mitten and smile, remembering the night the moon forgot its shoes.

Photo by Zaqy Al Fattah on Unsplash

No AI was used for this article: not for the idea, not for outlining, not for writing, not for the art and not for proofing.