One of the unexpected perks of hurtling toward the half-century mark, aside from creaky knees and reading glasses, is having grown up with the world’s greatest roleplaying game: Dungeons & Dragons. For as long as I can remember, this game has been a part of my life, sometimes in the background, sometimes front and center, but always there, like an old friend ready to spark the imagination.

And one of the greatest joys of D&D is passing it on to others and watching them discover the game as I did in my youth.

This summer, my family escaped to the sun-drenched hills of Tuscany, where we rented a villa nestled among vineyards and olive groves for two blissful weeks. It was an Indian summer, the air thick with heat, our days melting away by the pool. But as the sun dipped behind the cypress trees and the cicadas finally fell silent, a new tradition emerged. Dungeons & Dragons by moonlight.

My players ranged in age from 12 to 20, kids from my extended family, including my own, and for many of them, this was their first taste of the game. We cracked open the Essentials Kit and plunged into Dragons of Icespire Peak. Our first evening began with character sheets and dice, laughter and name-picking, as we stepped into the legendary Forgotten Realms on a quest to slay a dragon.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how it would go. This is a generation raised on iPads and X-Boxes, a digital world of instant gratification. I half expected eye rolls or short attention spans.

What I got instead was lightning in a bottle.

From the very first session, the spark caught. D&D didn’t just become part of our vacation routine; it became the reason to clear dinner plates faster than ever before. The excitement was palpable. The story, the characters, the dice rolls, they were hooked. It was electric.

For them, it was magic. For me, it was something deeper. Watching them discover the wonder of tabletop storytelling in real time was like watching fireworks go off behind their eyes. There’s something incredibly moving about seeing a new generation fall in love with something that shaped your own youth.

In a word, Pure magic.

A Game About Rules You Don’t Follow

When introducing Dungeons & Dragons to a new group, especially adults or seasoned gamers, there’s a sacred ritual: session zero. You take your time. You explain the rules. You build characters thoughtfully. You lay down the groundwork for the campaign like a careful gardener planting seeds.

But when your players are kids?

They just want to fight the dragon!

Their impatience was a jolt, a glorious, chaotic reminder of what D&D really is. Yes, it has rules. Yes, there are mechanics and modifiers and sourcebooks full of fine print. But none of that matters if you’re not having fun pretending to be a sword-swinging, ale-guzzling hero with a questionable moral compass.

The kids didn’t care about encumbrance. They didn’t ask what armor class was or how spell slots worked. What they did care about was choosing the coolest-looking helmet (even though modern D&D doesn’t have rules for helmets) and ordering a frothy mug of tavern ale (because pretending to be drunk is, apparently, hilarious).

They wanted to dive headfirst into the fantasy and so we did.

We built 1st-level characters lightning-fast: 4d6, drop the lowest, straight down the line. Four classic classes—Fighter, Rogue, Cleric, Wizard. No agonizing over feats or backstory minutiae. In less than 20 minutes, we were on the road from Neverwinter, headed toward the sleepy frontier town of Phandalin, backpacks light, coin purses jangling, stomachs growling.

I told them they were running low on rations, poorly equipped, and unprepared for the dangers ahead. They ignored all of it. Naturally. Because five minutes later they stumbled upon the corpse of a murdered merchant, Orc tracks leading off into the woods and that was all the motivation they needed.

They were in.

They didn’t know the rules. They didn’t need to. What they did know was that something had happened. Something bad. And these make-believe heroes were going to chase those orcs into the forest and make them pay, because they knew what Orcs were, they had all seen The Hobbit.

It was everything D&D is meant to be: danger, mystery, and bold, messy heroism.

Every face was locked in. Eyes wide, pencils nervously chewed, dice clutched tight. When I asked, “Who’s tracking the orcs?” and introduced the very first Survival check, you could feel the energy spike like a lightning bolt hitting the table.

The Rogue rolled a natural 20.

They followed the trail right to a clearing where a band of orcs sat around a campfire, drinking and laughing. Before anyone could strategize, the Fighter slammed their fist on the table and shouted, “I attack the Orcs with my Axe!”

One of the other players protested, but it was too late.

“The Fighter takes off running. The rest of you better catch up”, I told them.

Boom. Chaos. Laughter. Screams of delight.

Pure D&D magic.

What is D&D?

When I first sat down to write this article, I wasn’t sure what it was going to be about. I just wanted to tell the story, because even the act of writing it out stirred something in me. A kind of quiet, emotional tremor. Watching those kids, my kids and nephews, discover Dungeons & Dragons the way I once did was more than just heartwarming. It was life-affirming.

I’ve spent my life playing games. Role-playing games, miniature games, board games, you name it. And if you’re like me, you know the looks you get. The raised eyebrows. The half-smirks from people who have never had a gaming table in their lives. Even my wife, who’s known me for over 25 years, has often looked at me with a kind of affectionate confusion.

Why does a grown man care so much about all this?

But this time… I saw something different in her eyes.

She watched what was happening around that table, not just the game, but the way the kids leaned in, eyes wide, hanging on every word and I think, for the first time, she really got it. And then something happened that neither of us expected.

One day, the adults decided to go on a wine tour through the Tuscan countryside. It was going to be a long day of vineyard-hopping and child-free relaxation. No D&D that night, the kids would be left to their own devices. There was some grumbling, of course, but we kissed them goodbye and set off for a day of indulgent day-drinking.

When we returned, we braced ourselves for the usual post-unsupervised chaos. But there was no chaos. No screens. No locked bedroom doors.

Instead, the kids were all gathered around the table again, playing Dungeons & Dragons, on their own.

My son had taken the mantle of Dungeon Master. Despite barely knowing the rules, he was narrating a story, guiding the others through improvised adventures. They were telling tales, fighting monsters, completely immersed in a world they’d decided to build together.

No one told them to do it. No one handed them a script. They just wanted to.

They’d even drawn portraits of their characters, hoping, of course, to earn some extra XP from me when the campaign resumed. And before I could even step fully through the door, they were on me with rapid-fire questions:

“Why didn’t you tell us about Saving Throws?”

“There’s a Paladin class? What about Barbarians?, Why didn’t you tell us!?”

“Why didn’t you tell us about D&D Beyond!?”

It was… stunning. These screen-savvy, digital-native kids had unplugged themselves. They weren’t mindlessly scrolling, or zoning out, or retreating into the isolation of algorithms and apps. They were creating. They were collaborating. They were lighting up a part of their brains and their hearts, which too often lies dormant in today’s world.

And that, right there, is what D&D is. That’s what it’s always been.

It’s not just dice and rules. It’s freedom. It’s pure creative expression. It’s a primal kind of joy, something ancient and instinctual that lives inside every person. Some people find it in books. Some in painting, or sculpting, or dancing. But when you sit down at a table, look your friends in the eye, and say, “What do you do?”, you’re unlocking something sacred.

D&D is a release valve for the imagination. A bridge to wonder. A reminder that we are all still storytellers, no matter how old we get.

So, if there’s a takeaway from all this, it’s simple.

Play Dungeons & Dragons with your kids.

It’s good for them.

It’s good for you.

It’s good for the soul.