I’m eager to play D&D’s biggest idiot, but my games keep putting me in charge

I have a Dungeons & Dragons curse. You won’t find it in the Player’s Handbook or on any spell list, and yet it is demonstrably real. Gather together, listeners, and hear my sad story. (I have a lute now. I’m strumming it. It’s too late; the inn door is locked behind you.)

I want to play the dumbest character in my D&D party, but no matter what I do, I end up as the boss of the party.

Ignorance is bliss

There is a sublime joy in playing a complete numb, and I want to experience it. Perhaps the best I’ve seen it done is Dimension 20’s Zac Oyama, whose character roster previews several dunces, including a teenage barbarian who while sniffing his Insight checks; a dedicated firefighter with more abs than brain cells; and still a space parasite figuring out how human mouths work.

That’s not to say Oyama never plays smartie; his Puss in Boots might be my favorite performance in Dimension 20’s Never after that season. But Oyama’s characters are defined by his comedic strengths and his background as an improviser. He’s never the most talkative guy on any given show, but any Dropout fan knows that Oyama’s silence is only in service of when he breaks it, inevitably to say the funniest thing at the best possible moment. The compactness of its characters belies how smart you have to be to turn stupid play into entertainment.

I look at Oyama’s characters and think: God, I wish that was me.

I want to play a giant lug of a woman. Someone with an impractically large weapon. Someone who says funny things without realizing it, makes bad decisions and tries to survive the consequences. And this is very important: I want to be as stupid as a box of bricks. When my character approaches a situation that requires even a modicum of mental acuity—whether it’s intelligence, wisdom, or charisma—I want the rest of the players to whisper, “Oh no.” But, like, cheerful.

Let me try another way to achieve what I’m going for: you know that one henchman whose job, when Batman bursts through a skylight, is to scream, “It’s da Bat!”? To shout this like it wasn’t Batman’s successful goal of crashing through a skylight to alert everyone to his presence? To shout it out as if there could be someone else who just loudly smashed through several windows while dressed as a bat? To shout this in complete surprise, as if, despite all evidence to the contrary, this isn’t something that happens five times a night in Gotham City? Yet he persisted. He shouted, “It’s da Bat!”

I want to play that, but for the good guys.

And yet I am forever denied

Throughout the history of my life on the table, through one thing or another, I ended up being the person who just must always be on the ball.

I’m a bit of a unicorn in personal D&D history: my very first session turned into a four-year campaign, which earned me a rank of level 24 in third edition. When we last met, I was a chivalrously armored paladin hero famed for the righteousness of my berserker rage, astride my unicorn best friend, myself decked out in glowing, magical chant. I was a leader of legends, a position I earned through loyalty, compassion and candor, and I loved it.

It took me years after college to find a new gaming group that really stuck. The first time out, I tried out for a bard, and found that my high charisma once again made me the character everyone in the room turned to when roleplaying. Looking for a bit of variety, the next time I was invited to participate in an ongoing campaign, I decided to try the exact opposite of my Chaotic Good Half-Elf Crusader.

I built a true Neutral Githzerai Monk and felt prepared and ready to play the quiet newcomer to an already tight-knit group of adventurers. Not the character who actually talked to the NPCs, not the one who did so much when we went from talking to fighting.

However, this would turn out to be my first encounter with a “cat herding” gaming group. I had a blast, but as everyone’s quirks in personality and playstyle emerged, I still found myself often at the forefront of digging into the mystery of our adventure.

When we closed that campaign and started a new one, I started seriously considering not playing a facial character again. I built a dwarf barbarian and deliberately dumped her charisma and intelligence. This time we were doing post-apocalyptic fantasy homebrew, and I just wanted to get angry, kill zombies with axes, and not make “thinking about the consequences” part of my performance.

Then, during our first session, I just did that happened to touch the artifact like that happened to make me the Chosen One, who is just like that happens to be the one person who can somehow undo the zombie plague. If I remember correctly, the highlight of the campaign was something like… me negotiating for vital information with an ancient Dracolich who knew the secret of how the world ended. With an 8 Charisma. I wanted to be stupid! But I didn’t want that damn the world.

The next time I was invited to a new game, I admitted defeat. We would be playing mercenaries in the world of BioWare’s Dragon Age franchise, and since the Gods of Tabletop were determined that I would always be the de facto boss, I volunteered to be as literal as possible. I built an extremely charming and extremely smart villain whose sole purpose in life was to build a respected and financially successful band of mercenaries of like-minded souls.

DamnI thought. Let’s lean forward. It’s a brand new group; it will probably take three sessions anyway. And the monkey’s paw curled shut.

The campaign turned out to be the greatest, most emotionally devastating and fulfilling tabletop experience I’ve ever had. It’s taken nine years and counting. Nine years and more as party boss.

It’s me, hello, it’s me, it’s me

I know why this happens! Don’t think it’s a surprise! The secret of Dungeons & Dragons is that you can never actually make a “character choice” because you are never yourself.

I’m drawn to exploratory-type puzzles, whether they’re found in the Myst franchise or in the carefully constructed homebrew world of a college D&D group. Put one in front of me and I’ll start working on it automatically. I’m also the person who, given a lack of planning from others and permission to do so, will just stand up and say, “We’re meeting HERE for the bookstore crawl, RIGHT NOW I have a MAP, we’ll get ICE CREAM between THESE stops, and visit THIS and THIS stationery shop among these others to browse for NICE SHIT.

I’ve even been quite the boss – I used to have a whole website! But the thing is: tabletop games are supposed to be a fantasy.

All my TTRPG friends are aware: in the next campaign we are playing against someone otherwise must be in charge because I will be busy.

Busy playing The Gods’ Biggest Idiot. Head empty, no thoughts. Just a ‘giant fuck-off sword’.

If they make me their fantasy boss again, I will make them fantasy dismissed.