Miniature game thought for the day:

I’ve been thinking a lot about what 2020 has done to my coping mechanisms. This is the first time since I was 18 that I’ve not played in a single face-to-face tabletop gaming event for a whole year. That’s 15 years. #gamieperkins

I’m in a good-ish place now. Years of being introspective have given me a good handle on how to mediate my psyche and I’m lucky I have a psyche that can be mediated at all. Many people have things far worse than me. Anyway, I digress:

I have a HECK of a lot to thank tabletop games for. Through my teens, I never felt like I understood people. Constantly missing social cues. High school is an awful place at the best of times, let alone when you don’t understand why people are laughing at you.

I wanted to engage with people but I had no clue how. Each time I did it felt hurtful in some way. I retreated into my shell at every opportunity. I stopped speaking to people unless required to. I video gamed endlessly. People were hurtful, games weren’t.

I’d been a regular at my local Games Workshop but also stopped that when I was around 13 because even that group laughed at me. It can’t be understated how little I understood other people, but wanted to.

It wasn’t until I went to college, one specifically chosen because very few from my high school were going, that I started to rediscover myself. I started playing Warhammer 40k again.

It was about this time I began meeting the adult gamers. People like @Tom_Mawdsley and @thecountmoore at the Marple Marauders gaming club who shared my interests but weren’t socially tripping me up. They were kind.

They encouraged me to attend my first gaming tournaments and, coming from a competitive family, I took to it like a duck to water. I was opened up to a whole world of people who were kind by default and laughed with me, not at me.

Sure, not all competitive gamers are perfect but most of my interactions were good. So this became my escape from the hurtful real world. Failures with people at school or in early professional life didn’t matter. Here I could be safe and happy.

Miniature gaming gave me the perfect escape because while I was playing my mind was entirely focussed on the game and nothing else. No sad or hurtful thoughts. No social paranoia. Just the game, and polite sportsmanship.

When I started to win events it forced me into a spotlight I didn’t feel ready for. I was incredibly nervous to even walk on a stage in front of my peers and take a small wooden trophy. Paranoid I’d do something wrong.

It was actually through playing tournaments I learned the value of being a polite and courteous opponent. So many times in my earlier years I saw great players be arrogant and mean to their opponents. Aloof, looking down on “lesser” players.

I was determined to be better. You don’t have to be an asshole to be a winner. Better still, you should set an example for others. Good at a game and kind too.

I like to think this is the example I mostly set as a tournament winner. It’s always been so important to me to be generous and humble in victory. Make your opponents feel good about the game and the experience and they’ll want to play you again.

I’ve rambled a bit but this was therapeutic for me. Tabletop gaming and miniature gaming in particular taught me social skills, kindness, humour, humility, good grammar (thanks forumites)! It taught me how to act.

Miniature gaming also taught me how to self improve, how to work for something you really want, event organisation skills, and some of the basics that would help me become a game designer in later life.

To all those people who had a good interaction with me in those early gaming years, thank you. You had a positive and meaningful impact on me. You contributed to the person I am today. And I’ll always be grateful.