A detailed, engrossing campaign setting has always been always important to me in Dungeons & Dragons. Immersion in a magical world seemed like the point of the game, or else the character classes would have names like 'Tank/Support Hybrid A' and 'Tank/Support Hybrid B' instead of 'Paladin,' and 'Druid.' The game offered a chance to sink into an all-encompassing fantasy world with its own culture and history, like stepping into the Holodeck on Star Trek, only with more dice-rolling and less chance to unleash a deadly AI. I wanted to throw myself into an epic struggle, and have my investment pay off in an emotional climax like a season finale of Critical Role. I wanted jaw-dropping revelations that hit harder because of the time I had devoted to understanding the world, like Jon Snow's discovery that Valyrian Steel can kill a White Walker.
A few years ago I had a chance to play in just such an immersive campaign. I couldn't wait. The kingdoms and legends of the Dungeon Master’s home-brewed world filled many notebooks. My fellow players had adopted accents, carefully drawn their characters' portraits, and written out complex back-stories linked to his creation. We were all in to plunge into this new world and find our fortune. Yet three minutes into the Dungeon Master's intricate treatise on the society, geography, and factions of his city-state, and his words began to fade like those of Charlie Brown's teacher. He had printed out maps and glyphs and holy symbols as visual aids and none of it mattered. I could see my fellow players' eyes wander to their phones and snacks and beer labels. They had checked out. The Dungeon Master's earnest attempt to draw us into his expansive world had done the opposite.