Entertainment

The most common response to the news of Gary Gygax's death on Tuesday was probably, "Gary who?" His, after all, was not a household name.

His was a rec-room name, a library-table name, a gaming-store-in-the-dark-corner-of-the-mall name. And for the people who recognized that name from the worn covers of thumbed-over gaming manuals, his passing evoked a flood of memories.

"It's kind of like the death of Elvis for me," one fan told a Canadian newspaper.

Mr. Gygax was the co-creator and most visible face of Dungeons & Dragons, a game as nerdy and misunderstood as the millions of adolescents who played it.

Its cultural significance is that it is the recognized spiritual ancestor of every adventure-themed video game – and, by extension, many of the movies – around today. J.R.R. Tolkien imagined much of the fantasy universe, but it was Mr. Gygax who let players move in.

And millions did. The New York Times reports that he sold $1 billion in books and equipment. But despite such gaudy numbers, the game and gamers were always pushed to the fringes of society, tainted by links to the occult even though the game was roughly as satanic as an episode of Bewitched.

OK, so Elizabeth Montgomery was not so much into smiting the undead with holy flame strikes or stealing magic items from lightning-breathing dragons. That kind of stuff went on all the time in D&D –all played out according to Mr. Gygax's charts, all safely simulated with the multicolored dice that became icons of the game.

And all in our imaginations, surrounded by like-minded and creative friends.

It's those friendships that are at the core of the hundreds of blog posts and e-mails being written in tribute this week.

There's no denying Mr. Gygax's game drew a certain kind of person – most of the time, we preferred books to basketballs, and the only time you would see us running on the football field is if we were trying to get away from a linebacker who was trying to give us a wedgie.

We would grow up to be engineers, artists and maybe a journalist or two. But back then, the game gave us a safe harbor during the stormy passage from youth to adulthood. More accurately, the people we played with – on our parents' castoff dining room tables, with bags of chips and liters of soda almost crowding out the gaming materials – became both anchor and shelter.

Mr. Gygax himself said the essence of a role-playing game such as D&D is that it is "a group, cooperative experience." And in a 21st century when society is more wired but less connected than ever, Mr. Gygax deserves credit not only for inventing a fantasy game, but for fostering millions of real-life friendships.

So amid all the imaginary tributes being offered – tips of magic helmets, lifting of flagons of ale – one friend suggested to me that a memorial game, complete with Dr Pepper, Doritos and picante sauce – might be in order.

Mr. Gygax would certainly approve.