Stop Memorizing the Rulebook. Start Playing Already!
Seriously, the dragon won’t care how many Critical Role videos you’ve watched.
You may have noticed a common theme in my emails of late. Yes, it is absolutely intentional. I am 100% firmly in the "screw it and just join or start a group before you know what you're doing" camp!
You bought the dice.
You bookmarked three beginner guides.
You watched twenty hours of Critical Role.
You read the first 20 pages of the Player’s Handbook. Twice.
Yet you still haven’t played. Why the hell not?
Before we continue, if you haven’t subscribed yet, why TF not???
It’s free and you know you love reading my stuff.
So back to Why the hell not?
It's because you think you need to “know more first.” But you don’t. Nobody learns D&D by reading the rule books. Nobody.
Reading the Player’s Handbook before your first session is like reading a tax manual before your first paycheck. Yeah, technically it’s useful -- but it's mostly just discouraging. And absolutely zero fun. The more you read the rule books, the easier it is to convince yourself you need to learn first, play second. Bullshit.
You don’t need more prep. You need a game. You need a character. A group. A quest. A dumb reason to say, “I cast Eldritch Blast at the chicken.”
That is how you learn D&D: Try stuff, get it wrong, ask questions, roll badly, then shrug and try again.
D&D is not a test. There are extra-credit points for knowing what the book says. No final exam. No stodgy professor looking down their nose at you.
You don’t need to memorize what “grappled” means before you show up to session one. You’ll understand it faster when a goblin brawler suplexes and knocks the wind out of you, stunning you for a round.
Same goes for spell slots, initiative, hit dice, saving throws, movement speed and all the other trivialities. You won’t absorb it by reading. You'll absorb it by doing.
The only three things you need to know before your first session are:
You’re pretending to be an imaginary fantasy being.
You can do anything you're able to describe to the DM.
Sometimes you roll some dice to find out what happens.
That’s it. That’s the whole game.
Yeah, your first session will be messy. You’ll roll the wrong die. You’ll forget your abilities. You’ll spend your whole turn mumbling “Uhh… hang on…”
Perfect. That’s how everyone starts.
My first session, I asked if my wizard could ride his donkey into the tavern to make a grand, memorable entrance.
Nobody cared. They laughed. They helped. We kept going.
And that’s what you’ll find at most tables. People want you to mess up, so they can help you fix it. Psychologically, helping you makes them feel they have value to offer. In turn, that increases the sense of a friendship bond with you as a fellow player. The game is built for that. It’s 100% intended to be learned out loud.
Your DM and your fellow player do not want you quiet and fully prepared. They want you curious and chaotic. They want opportunities to share their experience. Let them.
Stop studying.
Stop stalling.
Stop convincing yourself you’re not ready to play yet.
"Ready" is a myth. Just show up. Say something, even (or especially) something dumb. Swing your sword. Roll some dice.
Reality check: The dragon doesn’t care how many YouTube videos you’ve watched. But it will absolutely care when your bard tries to seduce it with a spotlight bagpipe solo.
Until next time, as always, stay on the right side of the dirt.
-- Professor Richard Crackfang, A.W.E. (Arcane Wizard Extraordinaire)
Oh, and
P.S. -- The answer is Yes, you can absolutely try to ride your donkey into a tavern. But be aware its hooves will likely comically slip in the spilled ale and occasional puddles of vomit on the tavern floor… and it may drop a road apple or ten while it’s in there, prompting some disapproving glares from other patrons.
I'm firmly in the camp of Critical Role and it's derivatives offer a distorted picture of what playing a game is like. No amount of CR will help you with find fortunes and get out alive. Or provide you meticulously explained mechanical antics.
There is no substitute for play. No book can replicate the tension of a held breath before a die hits the table. No rule can capture the moment a character breaks, or forgives, or does something so utterly human it rewrites the arc of the story.
The story doesn’t care if you’re ready. It’s already calling.
Answer it. The rules will catch up, or they won’t.
Either way, you’ll have a tale worth telling.