What struck me most, though, wasn鈥檛 the scale of Dragons, Dungeons & Drinks. It was the way the organization connects people. There鈥檚 something profoundly countercultural about adults gathering to play, to pretend and to connect without agenda. In an era of hot takes and tribal politics, of headlines screaming 鈥渦s vs. them,鈥 and our elected officials being murdered, these folks are sitting around tables saying, 鈥淵ou see a door. What do you do?鈥
Renee said that some adventurers had no friends before this group. Let that sit for a second. No friends. Now they have 20-sided dice, a character sheet, and a table full of people ready to quest with them. Maybe even slay a metaphorical dragon or two.
Sure, they鈥檝e faced questions about safety and backlash. There鈥檚 always the specter of the 1980s 鈥淪atanic Panic,鈥 when D&D was accused of corrupting the youth. But Renee and Marcus aren鈥檛 sweating the critics. 鈥淚f someone鈥檚 skeptical,鈥 Marcus told me, 鈥淚鈥檇 just invite them to a game. See for yourself.鈥 And really, how can you hate a group that states on its website: 鈥淩eady for camaraderie, chaos, and some friendly competition? Our tables are always open.鈥
So, no, I didn鈥檛 roll a character or join a campaign (yet), but I left my conversation with Marcus and Renee feeling something rare: hope. Hope that in a fractured country, where suspicion often drowns out curiosity, there are still corners of joy. Little taverns of imagination, tucked between spreadsheets and rent payments, where people gather not to win but to belong.
And in these strange, uncertain times, that might just be the most heroic quest of all. You can catch Renee, Marcus and all their Dragons, Dungeons & Drinks friends at the Twin Cities Pride Festival, where they will have a booth. They are looking for new adventurers. I hope one of them might be you.
Ka Vang is a contributing columnist for the Minnesota Star Tribune. She focuses on historically marginalized communities.