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Steve isn’t what you would call socially awkward. He’s popular, and people like talking to him so he’s good with his words and can carry a conversation pretty decently with almost anyone who starts one with him. He’s great with kids, especially the Party since they look up to him for whatever reason, but Steve isn’t going to question it. He likes their company even if sometimes he feels inadequate about being in a space where the rest of them have so much more information, so much more confidence about this one topic that he desperately wants to understand. He tries his best in conversations about DnD, but he consistently feels out of the loop, like the friend they invited just because he’s fun to be around and they haven’t seen him in a while.
Steve understands DnD to a certain level. He knows the basics and the characters that each member has created, he even knows the storylines (he knows they’re called campaigns) that Eddie weaves for the party. He enjoys sitting and listening to them play, perfectly fine to be a background character in their conversations instead of contributing with the little knowledge he has. Steve isn’t socially awkward, but he likes to have a more than limp grasp on the topic at hand so he doesn’t feel stupid when the party or Eddie uses phrases he doesn’t understand or talks about a concept like he should’ve majored in it at college.
Its not that Steve doesn’t know anything about DnD, he knows the basics and that should be good enough for him because he doesn’t actively play, just listens, and yet the party and Eddie are all too eager to call him a fellow player. He’s educated enough where if he thinks hard enough about it he can create his own little storyline and characters, though when he sits down with a pen and paper he can barely translate his thoughts into more than a few measly paragraphs or a shitty outline. Yet, the party continues to refer to him as a great DnD player, despite seeing him try to play (and fail) a handful of times. The title doesn’t fit and Steve feels like an imposter in his own skin, pushed to the corner of the room and not being looked at when a conversation starts. He feels, well, stupid.
Steve isn’t a DnD player, but everyone insists he knows enough and has enough talent to be a great one, says he has all the makings of becoming the kind of player that people would be in awe of, and he isn’t sure if its self doubt, a lack of practice or something else entirely but Steve doesn’t agree. He knows that there’s at least a touch of truth to the words his friends say, but he hasn’t created anything good enough for himself yet, and if he doesn’t like his own work, who else would?
But when Eddie proposes a day for the party and Steve to have a brainstorming session with the purpose of building out their characters, Steve happily agrees. He loves his friends and seeing them in their element makes him happy just to be there for the ride. He’s happy to sit and observe, answer the occasional question about what a character should be named or what color their shirt should be, even what magical object they should have. He’s happy and content to be someone to bounce ideas off of, to be someone that helps correct grammar or spelling as needed. He’s happy, until someone asks him how his character is coming. Then Steve wants to curl into a ball and be quiet.
Conversation has always been a good way to know how Steve is feeling, if he’s chattering along making jokes and joining in he’s likely feeling really good. But a quiet Steve is a cause for concern, apparently, judging by the way Eddie mouths “are you okay?” over Dustin’s head. In part it hurts because the rest of the party are also Steve’s friends and wouldn’t they want to know how he was doing too? Steve is quick to nod a yes, not having quite the right words to explain it, whatever feeling this is.
Truth is, Steve has what he thinks is a good idea for a character, like a really really good idea. He’s written many of his thoughts down and honestly it was going good for a while, maybe due to the air of writing and concentration that filled the living room of Eddie’s trailer. But then Will asked if he could share his new idea and of course it was glorious, wonderfully thought out and perfect in every way and it ignited an urge in Steve to crumble up his own paper and just throw it away. The party and Eddie were excited, happily content to get wrapped up in Will’s story idea, talking about some other member of the Hellfire Club that would appreciate it too, some mutual friend that Steve had only ever heard about and never met. Steve wondered for a moment if they still knew he was here.
And so, he sat in the corner drawing doodles over his writing, only looking up when someone needed a question answered or had something interesting to say, doling out “that’s a great idea” or “I love the way you phrased that” when it felt appropriate in conversation.
Sometimes Steve wondered why he came to these meetings at all. He doesn’t live in Hawkins anymore, he moved away and the commute takes a toll on him he’s not willing to admit because he loves his friends and wants to be with them more often. He knows its stupid to feel left out while activity hanging out with his friends, but somewhere between Will’s incredible story and Eddie’s plan to rewrite an old campaign with a new focus, Steve emotionally checks out. He feels like everytime he says something the party is suddenly reminded that he’s still there, like he didn’t exist until he spoke. It makes Steve want to slink so far into the corner he can leave without being noticed. He thinks about the long and cold trek back to his car in the January weather, and tries not to take it personally that he’s been talked over the last 6 times he spoke, not that he’s counting. No one’s spoken directly to him or looked at him while talking in 45 minutes, but again, he’s not counting. He’s been trying to join a conversation the whole day, but it’s just not working. He resigns to just be quiet.
Steve knows that Eddie’s trying his best to be comforting, but he can’t help but feel like part of it is condescending, because no one knows what to say when the friend everyone goes to when they’re upset is clearly dealing with something. His head hurts, and he wants to go back to bed, but leaving before the official end of the day would be a red flag that something is wrong and Steve really doesn’t want to talk about it. He pours all of this emotion onto the piece of paper in front of him.
Steve feels unproductive, like a waste of time and space, just doodling something that someone else came up with an idea for, someone else planned out. He’s just putting his own spin on it really, that doesn’t count for anything. He didn’t create the characters, the storyline or the plot, he’s just playing with them, adding a few things here and there until it feels like it represents something else but its ultimately still the same. Steve finds a small comfort in this, like the character he’s working on is similar enough to him that they can share experiences but distant enough that his problems feel like someone else’s entirely.
Deep down, Steve spends hours each day consuming DnD content, trying to widen his skillset and become the player everyone thinks he can be, he wants to be a DnD player not just a member of the audience who’s too afraid to even join in the conversation because his fear of being judged for something that means so much to him is crippling. Steve wishes he didn’t spend the majority of club meetings sitting in the corner and watching everyone else have conversations, he wants to join in because he has things to say. And Steve is good at conversation he really is, talking to people is easy for him. But talking to his friends, these friends specifically, is hard. They’re smarter than him, better players than him, have stronger characters and storylines and they know so much more than he does, Steve gets too in his head about it and would rather let the people who actually know what they’re doing lead the conversation.
One day, likely years down the line, when Steve has the time and ability to, he’ll sit down and learn how to properly play DnD. He’ll do the research and create the character and build the storyline as perfectly on paper as he can in his head. He’ll realize that his friends were right and he could’ve had a seat at the table sooner, he’ll realize what was actually holding him back, and Steve can have the start of something successful. He’ll realize that there’s nothing wrong with taking something someone else created and adding his own spin to it (with the proper credit of course) and he’ll realize that needing a comfort character to brainstorm with is the kind of crutch that will help him blossom into the player he’s dreamed of becoming.
But Steve is skeptical that this will happen, and while today should be a learning moment, a time to grow and lean into the uncomfortable feelings that go with sharing something you created, Steve will walk back to his car in the frigid winter air, drive home in silence, and cry in the shower, letting this horrible day wash off of him. Maybe Steve just isn’t cut out to be a DnD player, and maybe his ideas are as terrible as they feel, and maybe he’s destined to be a consumer of stories instead of the creator. And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t actually about DnD at all.