A funny thing about names
Want to hear something that’ll make you smile? The name “Dungeons & Dragons” wasn’t crafted by marketing experts or focus groups. Nope. Gary’s two-year-old daughter Cindy picked it.
Picture this conversation: Gary: “Honey, which sounds better: ‘Fantasy Game’ or ‘Dungeons & Dragons’?” Cindy: “Oh Daddy, I like Dungeons & Dragons best!“
And just like that, gaming history was made by a toddler.
Sometimes the best focus groups are at the dinner table!
Table of Content
- A funny thing about names
- Dungeons, Dragons, and Dreamers: The Origins of Modern Role-Playing
- The unlikely heroes behind the revolution
- Gary Gygax: The shoe cobbler who dreamed of dragons
- Dave Arneson: The Minnesota maverick who broke all the rules
- The moment everything changed
- From basement hobby to accidental empire
- The "No Thanks" tour
- The $2,000 gamble that changed everything
- The first print run
- The marketing plan (or lack thereof)
- The word-of-mouth explosion
- The "borrowing" issue
- The satanic panic (or: how moral outrage made D&D famous)
- The cultural takeover nobody saw coming
- The accidental revolution
- The legacy of two dreamers
- The final roll
Dungeons, Dragons, and Dreamers: The Origins of Modern Role-Playing
You know what I find hilarious about great origin stories?
They almost always start with someone hitting rock bottom.
And folks, this one’s no different.
It’s 1972, and two guys are about to accidentally invent the future of entertainment.
There’s this guy in Lake Geneva, hunched over a workbench in his basement.
He’s fixing shoes, of all things.
Not exactly the glamorous beginning you’d expect for what would become the world’s most famous role-playing game, right?
Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson didn’t set out to change the world.
They just wanted to roll dice and pretend to fight dragons. But their basement hobby would spark a cultural revolution that’s still going strong 50 years later. This is the story of how a shoe cobbler and a history student accidentally created the most influential entertainment phenomenon you’ve never thought about.
The unlikely heroes behind the revolution
Gary Gygax: The shoe cobbler who dreamed of dragons
Meet Gary Gygax – insurance underwriter turned shoe cobbler, father of five, and secret game design genius. Here’s the kicker: he had to lose his cushy insurance job to eventually create Dungeons & Dragons. Talk about failing upward!
Gary was born in 1938 in Chicago, where he spent his childhood leading a neighborhood gang called the “Kenmore Pirates.” Yes, really. They fought elaborate battles with wooden swords and garbage can lids.
When that got too intense (apparently there was a serious rumble with 30 kids), his family moved to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
By the time we meet him in 1972, Gary’s living this double life:
- By day: He’s mending shoes to keep food on the table.
- By night: He’s commanding tiny armies of medieval soldiers in wargames.
- In between: He’s devouring every fantasy book he can get his hands on.
- Weekends: He’s running gaming conventions in his basement.
But here’s the kicker: his wife initially thought he was having an affair.
She followed him to what she assumed was a love nest, only to discover him hunched over maps with a bunch of guys playing war games. That’s peak Gary Gygax right there.
Fun fact: Gary was making exactly $882 a year from selling his self-published board games.
That’s not a typo – eight hundred and eighty-two dollars. For comparison, a new car cost about $3,500 back then.
No wonder he kept the shoe repair business going!
Dave Arneson: The Minnesota maverick who broke all the rules
While Gary was building his miniature empires in Wisconsin, something equally magical was brewing in Minnesota.
Dave Arneson was nine years younger than Gary and came from Minneapolis.
Where Gary was systematic and business-minded, Dave was pure chaos energy.
Picture this: a young history student having what we’d now call a massive geek-out moment:
- Two straight days of monster movies;
- A stack of Conan books;
- Complete boredom with traditional wargaming rules;
- A wild idea about doing something different.
Dave had a revolutionary idea: What if instead of commanding entire armies, each player controlled just one character? This seems obvious now, but in 1971, it was like suggesting you could eat pizza with a fork. Technically possible, but why would you want to?
Dave joined the Midwest Military Simulation Association in high school and immediately started breaking their carefully constructed war games. He created something called the “Blackmoor” campaign in 1971, starting with a plastic German castle (which was actually Sicilian, but whatever) and when it got too crowded, he did something brilliant: he expanded downward.
Into the dungeons.
Into the unknown.
His gaming style was legendary. One player desperately wanted to become a vampire, so Dave granted his wish – by turning him into a vampire rosebush that could barely move.
That’s Dave Arneson for you: Give the people what they want, but make it weird.
The moment everything changed
The most important basement meeting in gaming history
Let me tell you about the most important basement meeting in gaming history. No, seriously.
It’s winter 1972, and Dave Arneson has just driven through the freezing Minnesota weather to Gary Gygax’s house in Lake Geneva. Picture this scene: A shoe repair bench pushed to one side, miniature soldiers scattered across tables, and a bunch of people crammed into a suburban basement, not knowing they’re about to witness gaming history.
“So, what’s this new game you want to show us, Dave?“
What happened next was like watching someone invent pizza – once you’ve tried it, there’s no going back. Dave pulled out his notes for something called “Blackmoor” and started explaining his crazy new idea:
- Instead of controlling armies, each player controlled just ONE character;
- There was this thing called a “Dungeon Master” who controlled the world;
- Characters could do literally ANYTHING (not just move and fight);
- The game never really ended – characters kept growing and advancing.
Gary’s kids, Ernie and Elise, were there that night, along with their friends Rob and Terry Kuntz.
Can you imagine being those kids? “Yeah, we were just hanging out in Dad’s basement when they invented D&D. No big deal.“
Rob Kuntz later described what happened: “Our party fought a troll, got fireballed by a magic-user, fled outdoors, fought four Balrogs, and destroyed sixteen ogres with a wish from a sword we got from the troll.“
Gary’s mind was blown. He’d been playing war games where you moved hundreds of little soldiers around. Now Dave was showing him a game where you could BE one of those soldiers.
You could have adventures. You could grow stronger.
You could… well, you could become whoever you wanted to be.
The beautiful chaos of collaboration
Gary immediately started his own campaign called “Greyhawk.” Within weeks, he was writing furiously, turning Dave’s loose collection of ideas into something that could actually be published.
Let me share something hilarious about Arneson’s Blackmoor campaign that often gets overlooked.
This guy was so committed to keeping his players on their toes that he threw EVERYTHING at them:
- Medieval fantasy? Check.
- Steam-powered machines? Why not!
- A submarine? Sure, toss it in!
- Even a tank (yes, a literal tank) made an appearance.
It was like he took every cool thing he loved and threw it in a blender.
And somehow, it worked!
What followed was a flurry of late-night phone calls between Gary and Dave.
Remember, this was before email, before texting, before everything. These guys were racking up some serious long-distance charges to build their game.
The Process Was… Interesting:
- Gary would write rules.
- Dave would test them in Minnesota.
- They’d argue about changes.
- Repeat until something worked.
Here’s where it gets interesting. Gary and Dave were perfect creative partners in theory. Gary was the organizer, the businessman, the guy who could turn cool ideas into actual products. Dave was the creative genius, the rule-breaker, the guy who understood that games should be fun first and logical second.
But they were also completely different people. Gary wanted structure, rules, and systems. Dave wanted chaos, story, and “let’s see what happens.” Gary saw a business opportunity. Dave saw a way to have fun with friends.
Their collaboration created something neither could have made alone:
- Dave’s innovations: Individual character focus, experience points, hit points, dungeon exploration.
- Gary’s contributions: Systematic rules, character classes, spell systems, publishable format.
- Their combined genius: A game that was both structured enough to teach and flexible enough to inspire.
From basement hobby to accidental empire
The “No Thanks” tour
First, let me paint you a picture of what happened when Gary and Dave tried to get their game published:
- Publisher #1: “A game with no winner? Pass.“
- Publisher #2: “Dragons AND dungeons? Pick one!“
- Publisher #3: didn’t even reply.
- Publisher #4: “This will never sell.“
(Somewhere, these publishers are probably still kicking themselves.)
The $2,000 gamble that changed everything
So, what do you do when nobody wants to publish your game? You do it yourself, obviously!
In October 1973, Gary Gygax and his childhood friend Don Kaye decided to start a company. They called it Tactical Studies Rules (TSR), because “Fantasy Adventure Publishing” probably seemed too weird.
And when I say “formed a company,” I mean:
- They worked out of Gary’s basement (still with the shoe repair equipment!).
- They had to refinance their life insurance policies for startup money.
- Their first office “furniture” was mostly card tables.
- Their business plan was basically “hope people like it”.
Here’s something that’ll blow your mind: The entire initial budget for Dungeons & Dragons was $2,000. That’s it. To put that in perspective:
- A new car in 1974: $3,500
- Average house: $35,000
- First D&D budget: Less than a good stereo system.
Plot twist: $2,000 wasn’t enough. Production costs hit $2,500. Enter Brian Blume, who invested another $2,000 to become a one-third partner. Without Brian’s money, D&D might never have happened. Remember that the next time someone asks about the butterfly effect.
The first print run
January 1974: The moment of truth. They printed 1,000 copies of D&D, packaged in wood-grain boxes (because that’s what they could afford), priced at $10 each.
The entire art budget was $100. Artists got paid $2-3 per drawing. We’re talking garage startup levels of scrappy here.
What Was In The Box:
- Three small booklets;
- Some reference sheets;
- A whole lot of hopes and dreams;
- Optional dice (yes, you had to pay extra for dice!).
Fun fact: The first edition assumed you owned another game called Chainmail for the combat rules. Imagine buying a video game today that required you to own another game just to fight anything!
The marketing plan (or lack thereof)
Their entire marketing strategy consisted of:
- Word of mouth;
- A few ads in wargaming magazines;
- Gary literally carrying boxes to gaming conventions;
- Hoping really, really hard.
And yet… Those first 1,000 copies? Sold out in 10 months. The second printing of 1,000? Gone in 5 months. The third printing of 2,000? Disappeared even faster.
Something was happening. Something big.
The word-of-mouth explosion
Here’s the beautiful thing about early D&D: it spread purely through word of mouth.
No TV ads, no social media campaigns, just players telling their friends, “Dude, you have to try this game where you can be a wizard.“
Of course, success brought its own problems:
- They couldn’t keep up with orders;
- The rules needed clarification (lots of it);
- People kept asking questions they hadn’t thought about;
- Example: “Can my character marry a dragon?” (This was an actual question they received).
The sales numbers tell the story:
- 1974: 1,000 copies in 10 months.
- 1975: Second printing of 1,000 copies in 5 months.
- 1976: 4,000 copies sold, time to move out of Gary’s basement.
- 1980: TSR was doing $8-16 million in revenue.
By 1984, 3 million teenagers were playing D&D.
The game that started in a basement was now competing with Monopoly for shelf space.
The “borrowing” issue
Here’s a funny bit: Early D&D borrowed pretty liberally from various sources:
- Hobbits from Tolkien (later changed to “Halflings”);
- Ents (became “Treants”);
- Various monsters from mythology;
- Spells straight out of fantasy novels.
Eventually, lawyers got involved, and some hasty renaming had to happen. Oops!
The satanic panic (or: how moral outrage made D&D famous)
When parents declared war on imagination
Just when everything was going great, the 1980s happened. Let me share something hilarious: the same people who thought D&D was turning kids into wizards were often playing Bridge or Poker – games literally involving dealing with devils and queens of hearts!
In 1979, a troubled college student named James Dallas Egbert III disappeared from Michigan State University. He had complex mental health issues, but investigators decided his D&D playing was the real problem.
Enter Patricia Pulling, the game’s most dedicated enemy.
After her son died by suicide in 1982, she blamed D&D and founded “Bothered About Dungeons and Dragons” (B.A.D.D.). Her 1989 book claimed D&D players would become “homosexual satanists who will sacrifice their parents, their sister, and the family cat, then commit suicide in a satanic ritual.“
The media ate it up:
- CBS ran scared stories;
- Tom Hanks starred in a TV movie (Maze & Monsters) about the “dangers” of D&D;
- Religious groups declared war on the game;
- Parents burned dice.
It was bonkers.
The beautiful irony
Here’s the thing about moral panics: they’re excellent marketing. The more people said D&D was dangerous, the more kids wanted to play it. TSR’s sales exploded during the controversy. Nothing sells like forbidden fruit.
Meanwhile, actual scientists were doing actual research. The CDC studied the claims and found D&D players were statistically less likely to commit suicide than other teenagers. The American Association of Suicidology agreed. By 1991, even Health and Welfare Canada had declared the game safe.
But TSR got scared. They removed demons and devils from the game, replacing them with “tanar’ri” and “baatezu.” They eliminated assassin characters. They toned down the artwork. They basically let the moral panic win, even though they were totally innocent.
The Famous “Concerns”:
- It promoted witchcraft (it didn’t);
- It caused suicide (it didn’t);
- It made kids lose touch with reality (unlike TV?);
- It was addictive (like… books?).
The cultural takeover nobody saw coming
How dice-rolling nerds conquered Hollywood
By 1979, something incredible was happening. D&D wasn’t just growing – it was exploding:
- Sales hit $2 million (remember that $2,000 starting budget?);
- The game was in actual stores (not just Gary’s basement);
- Kids were choosing dragons over disco;
- Parents were getting concerned (more on that in a bit).
Three things happened that turned D&D into a cultural phenomenon:
The College Connection: Universities became D&D hotbeds:
- Computer science departments loved it;
- Dorm lounges became dungeons;
- Students wrote their own adventures;
- Some even skipped classes to play (not recommended!).
The Hollywood Effect: Entertainment discovered D&D:
- “E.T.” featured the game;
- “Mazes & Monsters” tried to warn us about it (unintentionally making it cooler);
- Steven Spielberg was reportedly a fan;
- Writers started incorporating elements into their work.
Remember those 3 million teenagers playing D&D in 1984? They grew up. And some of them became very successful. Turns out, kids who spend their youth creating collaborative stories become pretty good at… creating collaborative stories.
The celebrity D&D player list reads like a Hollywood who’s who:
- Vin Diesel (credits D&D with developing his imagination);
- Stephen Colbert (says it improved his improv skills);
- Jon Favreau (calls it “strong background in imagination and storytelling”);
- Robin Williams (would close game stores for private sessions).
The DNA of modern entertainment
Here’s the mind-blowing part: If you’ve played a video game in the last 40 years, you’ve experienced D&D’s influence.
What D&D gave us:
- Hit points? That’s D&D.
- Experience points and leveling up? D&D.
- Character classes? D&D.
- Dungeon exploration? D&D.
Games like World of Warcraft, Skyrim, and Baldur’s Gate 3 are basically D&D with better graphics.
The 2023 success of Baldur’s Gate 3 actually increased Wizards of the Coast‘s earnings by 40%.
Even shows like Stranger Things use D&D as a storytelling framework. The kids’ campaign mirrors the supernatural threats they face. It’s meta-storytelling at its finest.
Modern Culture Owes D&D:
- Cosplay;
- Gaming conventions;
- Fantasy sports (yes, really!);
- Collaborative storytelling.
The accidental revolution
What Gary and Dave actually created
Gary and Dave thought they were making a better war game. What they actually created was a new form of human expression. D&D democratized storytelling. It showed that ordinary people could create compelling narratives and inhabit imaginary worlds.
Think about it: Before D&D, entertainment was mostly passive. You watched movies, read books, listened to music. D&D made everyone both creator and audience simultaneously. It was social media before social media existed.
The game taught collaboration, problem-solving, and empathy. Players learned to work together, think creatively, and see the world through different perspectives. Schools now use D&D-based programs to teach social skills. Therapists use it to help kids on the autism spectrum.
The legacy of two dreamers
What we learned from Gary and Dave
The D&D story teaches us something profound about creativity and collaboration. Gary and Dave were very different people who probably wouldn’t have been friends if they hadn’t shared this one obsession. Gary was systematic and business-minded. Dave was chaotic and creative. Together, they were unstoppable.
Their relationship wasn’t always smooth. They had lawsuits, disagreements, and hurt feelings.
But they also created something that brought joy to millions of people.
They showed us that the best collaborations happen when different types of minds work together.
The final roll
So what can we learn from this 50-year journey?
- Sometimes the best ideas come from basements;
- Parents will always find something new to worry about;
- Good ideas are unstoppable;
- Never underestimate the power of imagination.
And perhaps most importantly: Two guys who loved games enough to risk everything ended up changing entertainment forever.
Ready to join the revolution? Grab some dice, find some friends, and discover what Gary and Dave knew all along: the best stories are the ones we create together.
Roll for initiative, and may your stories never end.
Edall 
