There’s this Star Trek: The Next Generation episode called The Inner Light. Even if you’re not a Trekkie, hear me out.
Captain Picard gets zapped by a mysterious space probe (as one does), passes out for a few minutes, and wakes up living someone else’s life on a peaceful planet. New name, new wife, new everything. He spends decades there—grows old, learns to play the flute, raises a family. And then, poof. Back to the Enterprise. The planet’s gone. The people are gone. The whole thing was a memory implant—this extinct civilization’s way of being remembered.
But here’s the thing: it changed him.
That episode came to mind the other day, and I couldn’t stop thinking—maybe we’re all having little Inner Light moments when we play TTRPGs.
The Lives We Roll Into
I’ve played a lot of characters. Some were dumb. Some were funny. Some were powerful. Some were disasters. And a few… a few left a mark.
No, they’re not “real.” I get that. They don’t go to work or eat cereal. But the emotions? Those were real. The tension when the rogue had to betray the party to save her sister. The joy when the warlock finally broke her pact and lived. The heartbreak when the paladin died alone, still believing.
Emotions are the only thing that really anchor us to life. Otherwise it’s just scenes flying by.
So when I say I’ve lived many lives, I mean it. Not in a “past life” kind of way—but through dice, stories, drawing characters, and creating worlds. I’ve walked in shoes that weren’t mine. I’ve felt things I wouldn’t have in my normal, relatively quiet life (which involves zero dragons, by the way).
Why It Sticks
The randomness is part of the magic. In a novel, you control the outcome. In a TTRPG? The dice laugh at your plans. Characters start one way and end up somewhere completely different. They grow. They change. Sometimes they surprise you.
And even if I don’t go full method-actor immersion while playing, those characters linger. I think about them later. I write stories about them. I draw them. I reuse them. Sometimes they show up in other campaigns. Or as NPCs. Or as weird little ghosts in my stories. They’re not gone—they just evolved.
And they remind me of the people I played with. Friends who aren’t in my life anymore. Late-night laughs. Emotional moments. Pizza on the character sheet. All that stays.
What Is a Life, Anyway?
A life is a collection of memories and feelings. That’s it.
So if I experienced something with depth—grief, joy, regret—even if it was inside a made-up world, isn’t that a kind of life?
I’m not trying to get all philosophical, but I am saying this: creating makes us live more. Some folks say reading does that, and sure, it does. But creating is more intimate. It’s more personal. It gets under your skin. You’re not just imagining someone’s life—you’re being them, just for a while.
Even if everything around us is fake—a matrix, a dream, a brain in a jar—the emotions still count.
Why I Keep Coming Back
I don’t know why everyone plays TTRPGs. Some people love the strategy. Some love the math. Some just want to hit stuff with a sword. That’s cool.
But me? I come back because it lets me feel things I wouldn’t normally get to feel. It’s a way to explore ideas, emotions, and lives I’d never touch otherwise. A safe way to live other lives. To go on journeys that challenge me, or surprise me, or just make me laugh.
And the best part? When a campaign ends, you don’t lose that life. You carry it with you. Like Picard and his flute. A little piece of a world that doesn’t exist anymore… but changed you anyway.
So yeah. Maybe none of this is real. But it feels real. And that’s enough.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write about that time I ran a game where the big bad evil lich got teleported to our world—straight into Comicon—by the party of heroes.