Dwarf days

I first visited the White Dwarf offices in early 1980. I say “offices”, but it was a single room crammed with desks and a paste-up area, roughly ten metres by five metres at a generous guess. WD was strictly a sopra la bottega operation back then, with the Games Workshop store downstairs. No need to say more, as I expect it’s described in Jonathan Green’s Dice Men book -- though the chapter originally used for crowdfunding by the now-disgraced and defunct publisher Unbound was by Jamie Thomson, and you can read that here.

The thing is, I didn’t think of it as the White Dwarf office. It was also where Games Workshop put together their early boardgames and Ian Livingstone and Steve Jackson ran the business. I was there to talk about a new roleplaying game that they wanted to call Adventure, which kept me busy for about a year until GW got the RuneQuest licence and Adventure was quietly binned.

Another year or so, and I met Jamie Thomson who told me he’d just landed an editorial job at White Dwarf. “I used to know those guys,” I said. “You should write for the magazine,” said Jamie.

The offices had moved from Hammersmith (grotty but right in the heart of things) to an industrial estate in Park Royal (big but impersonal). “Sorry about Adventure,” said Ian the first time I showed up with some copy. “We just weren’t set up for that kind of thing before, but now we are and we’d like you to do some work on Questworld.” As you will know, the UK Questworld never happened, but it did act as the catalyst to draw me into White Dwarf, primarily as a RuneQuest contributor.

White Dwarf was a very different magazine in those days, with the focus not on miniatures and tabletop games but on roleplaying. I think of it as the magazine’s golden age, but then I would. I can trace back professional partnerships, friendships, and creative influences to my time as a freelancer, often rolling up mid-morning with a half-bottle of vodka and a pack of menthol cigarettes (now outlawed, but then part of the atmosphere of the office) to pound out articles to fit whatever space Jamie needed to fill that month.

It's now almost half a century since the first issue of White Dwarf. Prior to my involvement with the magazine I didn’t often have a reason buy it, but I do remember coming home from a trip to London with the first issue and thinking the cover would have been more dramatic if it had showed the scene a split-second before the little chap slices the wizard’s head off. Ten years later I’d become a convert to unsubtlety. I remember a conversation with Marc Gascoigne just before the move to Nottingham:

Me: “This new Call of Cthulhu supplement you’ve got coming out. ‘Green Unpleasant Land’ would have been a much better title.”

Marco: “‘Green & Pleasant Land’ is ironic.”

Me: “Well, duh. But in-yer-face would have more impact. And it would be funnier.”

(When it came to withering remarks, in those days we were the irresistible force and the immoveable object. How our friends must have loved us.)

Other memories of back then:

Meeting Andy Slack and Albie Fiore. That was at the Dalling Road office. They immediately made an impression with their intelligence, enthusiasm, and total professionalism. Albie was an inspirational world-builder. He told me about a ruined city in the desert in his roleplaying game; it had been a thriving metropolis until a meteorite destroyed the aqueduct that brought water from the mountains. (Yes, don’t live in the middle of the desert and rely on aqueducts, but even so.) The same care is obvious in Albie’s WD scenarios, “The Halls of Tizun Thane” and “The Lichway”.

Playtesting Adventure with the GW staff. One evening I ran a game for Ian, Steve and the Dalling Road stalwarts. Steve gave me some valuable advice: never to bother with “he says” when giving NPC dialogue – “Just say it. Act it out. Accents help.” Ian was worried that Adventure might end up like Empire of the Petal Throne, which he knew I played. In a sense he was right, as I was devising a world with a detailed non-European culture populated by non-Caucasians, whereas GW really just wanted a British D&D.

Working with Oliver Dickinson was a pleasure not only because of his deep knowledge of RuneQuest and insightful discussions of its world, but also because Oliver is one of the most warm, civilized and decent people I’ve ever met. His delightful Griselda stories (a nod to Damon Runyon) were a highlight of WD. Because Oliver didn’t have access to a player group, he had to run RQ adventures solo – anticipating the mid-‘80s craze for gamebooks by a couple of years, and solo RPGs by even more.

Things I turned to first each month were Dave Langford’s book reviews and Mark Harrison’s The Travellers. Marcus L Rowland’s ideas were always interesting; I liked to read his scenarios even though I never used published scenarios in my own games. Phil Masters was another of the regular writers whose work I admired.

Hanging out at Sunbeam Road with Jamie, Gary Chalk, Ian Marsh and the others. One morning I was there spitballing a D&D scenario when Jamie took a call – “Yes, just by chance he is here. I’ll pass you over…” It was a reader who had picked up the latest issue and fallen foul of a trap in the first instalment of “The Castle of Lost Souls” solo adventure. “It says I’m dead. What am I supposed to do about that?” demanded an angry Scottish voice. I explained there was nothing he could do. “I just have to start again, is that it?” I doubt if he went on to become a big fan of gamebooks.

Leo Hartas showed up with his portfolio but it was press day and Jamie had forgotten he was coming in. Leo had to lay his artwork out on the floor and people were almost stepping over it. A drawing of a magic book that seemed to be three-dimensional made a particular impression, and when a publisher asked me who I wanted to illustrate my Golden Dragon books I got in touch with Leo, snaffling him up before White Dwarf had a chance to. Just as well I went into the Sunbeam Road offices that day, or we’d never have had Mirabilis, the Rathurbosk Bridge, and Fangleworth’s (well, we liked it), the Dark Lord books wouldn’t have been brought to life by Freya Hartas, nor would Jewelspider have benefited from the art of Inigo Hartas – both Freya and Inigo clearly carrying the imaginative genes of Leo and their maternal grandfather, the properly legendary John Vernon Lord.

It all came to an end when Ian and Steve retired (temporarily) to Spain on the earnings of Fighting Fantasy and White Dwarf was handed over to the power of the gods and devils of Nottingham, where it entered its chrysalis as a glorious content-rich butterfly and emerged as a sales catalogue maggot. We can’t blame Games Workshop. They’re a company and their aim is to make money for the shareholders, not bear the torch for roleplaying. I’m sad to see WD’s passing as I was saddened by the loss of Coven 13 and the Beatles and the Silver Age of Marvel comics. Still, nothing lasts forever, nor should it. As Ray Kurzweil said, “Death gives meaning to our lives. It gives importance and value to time. Time would become meaningless if there were too much of it.”