I’ve been rolling dice for more than four decades now, and somehow, the games still surprise me. At 54, I’m thinking a lot about what it means to carry this hobby—and this craft—into my 60s. I’m not the new kid at the table anymore. I’m the cranky old-head person with the beat-up GM screen, too many notebooks, and a head full of campaign scars. And yet, here I am, still sketching new worlds, still chasing that feeling of discovery.When I was younger, gaming was about escape. All-night sessions, bad pizza, and the thrill of maps unrolling across the table. Now it’s about endurance. What keeps me going isn’t the grind of XP charts or proving I can run a 12-hour dungeon crawl (I can’t). It’s the people. The laughter when the dice betray you, the hush when the narrative turns, the shared myth we spin together. If forever-GM is a thing, I’m your huckleberry!

In-person games have become precious. My weekends, or local pickup games are so much joy— sitting at the table, hearing dice clatter, seeing friends react in real time—that’s magic you can’t patch into a Zoom call.Game conventions are part of this too. I’m not chasing the Big Box cons anymore. I’d rather be in a small venue, where play feels personal, conversations run long, and you can sit down with folks who aren’t trying to rush through an event schedule. Big shows have spectacle; small shows have engagement. At this point in life, I’ll take engagement.

Online play has been a lifeline. I wouldn’t be running half the games I do without it. It’s amazing to see how tech has evolved, or retro-fitted to serve us, gamers. The joy: I can connect with players across states, across countries, across time zones. I can play new-to-me games with folks who “get it,” even if they live a thousand miles away...Thomas!

The challenge: online play demands a different rhythm. It’s harder to read the table. Harder to hold focus. Sessions need to be shorter, sharper. Breaks matter. Tools matter. But even with those hurdles, online play lets me keep rolling dice when in-person isn’t possible. It’s not second best—it’s different. And it’s part of how I’m moving forwards.

On the design side, this past quarter looked like this:

My many different doors into the same room: the room where play happens.

In a year or two, I’ll be relocating. Kansas City has been good to me, but I’m already scouting what’s next: maybe Vegas, maybe Chicago, maybe Colorado— any Atlanta folks out there?!. The idea of planting new roots is both exciting and exhilarating. Will I find new tables to play at? New communities to plug into? Probably. Gamers are everywhere. But it’ll be a reset, a chance to see how play evolves in a new city.

So what does a second act look like for a neo-grognard gamer? For me, it’s doubling down on play. Building games, yes. Publishing them, yes, but also carving out space to play more—to sit at tables, online or in person, with whoever’s ready to roll.Thanks for allowing me to muse aloud.

Thanks for reading, playing, and supporting the strange stuff.