D&D is a singularly strange experience for the uninitiated, and it’s hard to explain the game’s appeal without sounding like some kind of Renaissance fair wannabe. Part storytelling, part spreadsheet twiddling, part strategy game, and part playacting, the game essentially goes like this: the dungeon master, or DM, tells a story describing the monsters and the perils that the heroes encounter, and the players, who are the heroes, work together to save the day. There are other rules, of course—nitty-gritty details about magic use and damage reduction and the like. But, in general, the rules boil down to whatever the players can convince the DM to let them get away with.

That means that D&D games end up being just as varied as the people involved in them. Running a campaign for a bunch of teenage guys—like I did for Howard and his “enormous rack” when I was a staff member at computer camp—is guaranteed to involve lots of tomfoolery, drunken nights in taverns, and probably some good old-fashioned bad-guy slaying, whenever they get around to it. But running a campaign for my high school friends was a totally different experience. In a circle dominated by theater-folk and art majors, we ended up spending a lot of time exploring the setting and talking with townsfolk, and a few of my friends ended up doodling sketches to chronicle our adventures.

But, whatever the character of a campaign, when it’s done right, it’s just as engrossing as any book or movie. Freshman year, I broke my solemn vow never to wake up before noon on a weekend—not because of a club or work or any other sensible reason, but because D&D started at 11 a.m., and I couldn’t stand the idea of missing even one hour of questing.

And then there’s the other end of it: serving as a DM for a pack of ravenous players. I once served as a DM for my Girl Scout troop during a cabin retreat. We played D&D for a few hours in the evening before I quit to go sleep. I woke up the next morning after being literally dragged out of my bed, because evidently everyone else was awake, and they certainly didn’t want to wait any longer to find out what would happen next.

So I ended up doing a monologue in the role of the evil sorcerer-villain while munching breakfast cereal: “What you say is of no consequence, my friends,” I sneered in my best villain voice. “You see, I haven’t eaten in a very long time, and you are my next feast.”

The outcry was uproarious and instantaneous.

“Did that guy just betray us? Oh, I am going to kick his ass so hard.”

“Wait, he eats people? That’s just naaaasty.”

“Eat someone else! Hey, let’s negotiate; I’m out of spells.”

I grinned as I munched my Lucky Charms, waiting to see what they’d do next.

—Columnist Julia E. Hansbrough can be reached at jhansbrough@college.harvard.edu.