So I’ve been thinking on wargames, and how they relate to RPGs and how we play RPGs.
First off, real wargames suck. They are boring, and involve a whole lot of spreadsheets (which we can all agree is the worst part of any RPG, including D&D). Real wargames are about logistics, about intel, about diplomacy. About knowing when to fight, and knowing when nót to. Wait. That sounds a lot like… any RPG.
To understand why wargames might seem “boring” today, we must first look at their origins. The concept of using a game to simulate military conflict is ancient, but modern wargaming finds its roots in 19th-century Prussia. Kriegsspiel (German for “war game”), developed by military strategists, was a revolutionary tool. It wasn’t designed for entertainment; it was a serious training exercise. Officers would use sand tables and miniature blocks to simulate battlefield scenarios, with a neutral umpire controlling the “fog of war” and adjudicating the outcomes based on strict, complex rules.
These early wargames were about as far from a “game” as you can get. They were rigorous, mathematical models designed to teach logistics, strategy, and command. Success wasn’t about heroic charges but about the mundane details: supply lines, troop morale, intelligence gathering, and the strategic positioning of forces. The goal was to train officers to make rational, calculated decisions under pressure—precisely the kind of cold, hard math you find in a spreadsheet.
As the 20th century progressed, wargaming diversified. It moved from military academies to the enthusiast market. Companies like Avalon Hill and SPI published complex board games that attempted to recreate historical battles with painstaking detail. These games were rule-heavy, demanding an immense investment of time and intellectual effort. They were, in essence, an evolution of Kriegsspiel—still focused on the cold, objective reality of war. Think Axis & Allies.
And this is where the stagnation began. While the tools for wargaming became more sophisticated, the core philosophy remained tied to its roots. The focus was on “what would happen,” not “what would you do.” You were a commander, not a person. You were managing resources and probabilities, not embodying a character. This reliance on deterministic outcomes and logistical minutiae is, in many ways, the albatross around the genre’s neck.
The breakthrough that liberated the “game” from the “war” came in the form of a different kind of rulebook. In the early 1970s, two wargamers named Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson took the foundational principles of wargaming and did something truly radical: they injected fantasy. And more importantly, they injected a singular character’s perspective.
Dungeons & Dragons, born from wargaming but fundamentally different, shifted the focus from the macro to the micro. The battles were no longer grand affairs between faceless armies; they were personal, tactical skirmishes between individuals. The most crucial innovation, however, wasn’t just the dragons and the spells. It was the introduction of the Dungeon Master (DM) and the concept of an ongoing narrative.
In a traditional wargame, the rules are everything. They are immutable and sacrosanct. The outcome of a battle is determined by a formula. In D&D, the DM has the final say. This seemingly small change opened the door to an infinite number of possibilities. The rules became a framework, not a cage. A player could attempt an action not covered by the rulebook, and the DM could adjudicate the result. This simple act of creative freedom turned a military simulation into a collaborative storytelling exercise.
Suddenly, the boring logistics of war became the thrilling drama of personal quests. Intel became intrigue. The need to know what’s over the next hill wasn’t about positioning an army; it was about avoiding a goblin ambush or finding a hidden treasure. Diplomacy wasn’t just about alliances between nations; it was about convincing a grumpy dwarf to help you, or smooth-talking your way past a suspicious city guard.
Here’s the thought: The most compelling aspects of “real wargames”—the parts about logistics, intel, and diplomacy—are exactly what became the heart and soul of the TTRPG experience. They just got a hero and a story to go with them.
Today, the divide is clearer than ever. Wargames continue to thrive in niches, often catering to a dedicated audience that values historical accuracy and strategic depth. They are the domain of the meticulous, the patient, and the mathematically inclined. They are about the beautiful, complex clockwork of a military campaign.
TTRPGs, on the other hand, are about the messy, unpredictable, and emotional human experience. They are about heroic failure and unexpected success. The “real wargame” still sucks, at least for a modern audience, because it hasn’t fully embraced the human element. It remains a system of inputs and outputs, whereas TTRPGs have become a system of inputs and an infinite number of possible stories.
The evolution of these two genres is a fascinating lesson in design. One stayed true to its academic, simulationist roots, and the other embraced the power of narrative and player agency. Ultimately, the “real” wargame, the one about logistics and knowing when not to fight—is not boring at all. It’s just a wargame waiting to be played by a character, not a commander. It’s a game waiting for someone to say, “What if we didn’t use the spreadsheet? What if we talked our way out of this one instead?”