MÖRK BORG is a scream set to layout. A doom-metal sermon disguised as an RPG, it tears down the walls between art, apocalypse, and play. Beneath the noise and nihilism lies a design ethos so sharp it cuts through decades of tradition: beauty in decay, freedom in chaos.

The Black Hack looks deceptively simple – a few pages of minimalist rules that strip D&D to its bones. Beneath its scrappy DIY surface lies one of the smartest pieces of game design in the OSR: a system that remembers what made the old games great, and what made them human.

After a few weeks away (thanks to work, illness, and life being life), I looked up and realised OSR October was already half over. Here’s my complete list of prompts and responses for the month – from overlooked rules to misunderstood magic – with promises to expand each in the coming weeks. Consider this a quick resurrection roll and a reminder that the dice are still rolling at One Man and His Dice.

In this wide-ranging conversation, TSR veteran Harold Johnson pulls back the curtain on the birth of Dragonlance, the roots of the A-series Slavers modules, and the improbable path that took him from theatre and biology into shaping the game that changed the world. Along the way, we touch on TSR castles built from paper, conventions past and present, and the enduring secret that makes Dungeons & Dragons thrive: the creativity of the players themselves.

Before Dungeons & Dragons, before Chainmail, before the TSR juggernaut, there was War of the Empires. A ditto-printed postal wargame run by a “Master Computor,” complete with newsletters, medals, and cosmic aristocracies. Gary Gygax himself once role-played as Sub Commander Gygax, bearing the “Curse of Yig” in a galactic struggle. The game died, revived, and died again, but its DNA can be traced through the entire evolution of the hobby. This is the forgotten prehistory of sci-fi gaming.

Imagination is the true currency of fantasy gaming. Dice and rules are scaffolding, but it’s fiction – the myths, stories, and half-baked pulp tales we absorb and remix – that fuels the OSR and NuSR. The broader your influences, the richer your game becomes.

Gods, Demigods, and Heroes is one of the strangest supplements TSR ever published. Less a rulebook than a statted-out mythology handbook, it dares to reduce Zeus, Odin, and even Conan to hit points and armour class. It’s gloriously audacious, wildly inconsistent, and ultimately more interesting as a cultural artifact than as a play aid. Yet within its messy pages lies the spirit of 1970s D&D. It’s reckless, playful, and unafraid to cross boundaries.

The eternal debate over weapon damage is more than a question of dice. Should every weapon strike for the same? Or should swords, spears, and morning stars feel distinct, bound by reach, heft, and mastery? This piece explores how old-school rulings on expertise, dual-wielding, and weapon length still echo in today’s OSR and NuSR design debates, where the balance between simplicity and realism shapes not only combat, but the very soul of the game.

The Tomb of Horrors isn’t a dungeon. It’s a grudge. Every wall, pit, and false door is Acererak’s way of sneering at your pride and daring you to press on. Johnny Nine-Fingers ventured inside and came back with fewer eyebrows, more curses, and a story to tell. This is about surviving the cruellest puzzle-box in RPG history.

First published in 1978, S1: Tomb of Horrors is less a dungeon crawl and more a cruel puzzle-box built to humiliate adventurers. With Acererak’s traps, illusions, and the infamous green devil face, the tomb became a rite of passage – and a graveyard – for heroes. This essay explores its origins, its publication, and why, nearly fifty years later, we still return to die within its halls.

The final reward of RPGaDAY2025 isn’t treasure or XP – it’s community, reflection, and the joy of creating stories together. Thanks to everyone who joined in. See you next year.

I’ve been away from the internet for most of August, so here’s a whirlwind catch-up on #RPGaDAY2025 prompts 11–30. From flavour and mystery to destiny and nemesis, plus a peek at my own challenges, inspirations, and origins.

From perilous journeys across white roads to the joy of exploration, the inspirations that fuel our games, and the origins of it all in Christmas ’82 – four RPGaDAY prompts in one go. Sometimes the dice lead, sometimes the stories, but the motive is always the same: play.

Gold might spark a quest, but it’s motive that keeps the dice rolling. From zealots convinced they’re saving the world to gamblers dodging debts, everyone wants something, and every choice sets the next adventure in motion.

In the east, the Silent Observatory of Quagmar houses the Sidereal Gnomon, a shadowless “sundial” that points to whatever you seek, for the price of a memory. Fortune favours the bold… and forgetful.

Johnny Nine-Fingers and I discuss the kind of message that’s not carried on a dagger tip, but through a pub window: an invitation for newcomers to join the game. No rulebooks required – just curiosity, a chair, and the courage to roll the dice.

At The Hanged Goat, luck is made with every roll of the dice, every coin tossed, and every drink raised in the shadows of Quag Keep. This tavern, nestled within the heart of a shifting stronghold, is the birthplace of adventure, whether it’s braving the wilderness or defying the gods.

Gary Gygax never told me to use a GM screen, but he showed me how to use it well. From the filing cabinet ‘judge’s screen’ of his early playtests, I learned it could be more than cardboard. It could be drama, mystique, and a tool for immersion.

In 1982, my older sister Tammy introduced me to the Moldvay Basic Set and unknowingly changed the course of my life. My first adventure in the Caves of Chaos involved kobold disguises, wild sack-swinging, and the moment I found my true home in tabletop roleplaying.

In pulp, treasure is never just gold – it’s a debt waiting to be paid. Every crown, every gem, every bloodstained coin carries a curse. The best RPGs know this: the treasure whispers, it watches, and it weighs. And when you count your winnings, something always counts you back.

There’s always another door, another depth, another hell. In pulp, the otherworld isn’t a place on a map – it’s a trap sprung by guilt, sin, or bad luck. Step through, and reality twists: the landscape mocks you, the air stinks of your secrets, and something is always watching from the throne.

In the days before hashtags and instant messages, adventurers found each other through ink, postage, and the slow alchemy of waiting. Somewhere in the mind’s tavern, a corkboard still stands – threadbare, dusty, and pinned with the names of strangers who might have been friends.

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The pulp hero doesn’t fight because it’s noble. They fight because the world leaves them no choice. Every swing of the sword is a pact with death – the only prize worth winning. Victory comes steeped in blood, and the cost is always a piece of your soul left behind.