That conversation I never wanted to freakin have.

I’ve been sitting on this article for months. The first draft was well over 3,000 words, and the second draft wasn’t much shorter. Every time I started writing, I got angry, and every time I got angry, the article got longer. Somewhere along the way I realized I wasn’t really writing about AI anymore. I was writing about frustration, disappointment, and feeling like I had to defend my existence as a creator.

So let’s try this one more time.

Once upon a time, tabletop roleplaying games were built on newsletters, fanzines, pamphlets, and whatever else people could scrape together. Folks typed things up on typewriters, ran them through photocopiers, stapled them together, and shared them with anyone at the wargaming club willing to read them. The hobby wasn’t built by publishing companies; it was built by enthusiastic weirdos with fantastic ideas.

Fantasy art wasn’t readily available, and layout software didn’t exist. Nobody was arguing about AI because most of us were trying to figure out how to get enough copies made before the local copy shop closed or we got kicked out of the public library (Yes, that really happened.) The important thing was the idea; the adventure, the setting, the monster, the game.

Somewhere along the line, things changed.

Today, fantasy art is everywhere, layout software is available to almost anyone with a computer or a phone, and publishing has never been easier. Yet somehow the barriers to entry feel higher than ever. If you release a product today without art, if your cover isn’t eye-catching, or if your layout isn’t polished, people notice. Art has become an expectation.

I listened to a popular DungeonTuber the other day railing against typos and grammatical errors the other day. The same guy regularly doubles down against AI tools. Do you see where this causes me some cognitive dissonance?

That brings me to the problem.

I have quietly come to loggerheads with people I admire over AI art. I’ve watched creators get absolutely roasted for using it. I’ve watched friendships fracture, and I’ve watched communities divide themselves into camps that seem increasingly unwilling to listen to each other. I’ve mostly kept my mouth shut—not because I don’t have opinions (trust me, I do), but because I knew the moment I opened my mouth someone would assume I was attacking artists.

I’m not. Not even a little.

I think artists should be paid, and I think artists deserve respect. I think artists create things I could never create. I also think reality exists, and reality is where this discussion gets complicated.

I’m a small creator. I’m not running million-dollar crowdfunding campaigns, getting convention appearance fees, or selling tens of thousands of copies of products. I’m a guy trying to make third-party Dragonbane supplements at three in the morning while dealing with chronic pain, depression, family obligations, and whatever fresh disaster life has decided to throw at me this week.

Have you seen what professional fantasy art costs these days? Holy shit.

Good artists deserve every penny they earn. The problem isn’t the artist; the problem is that many small creators simply can’t afford those prices. A custom cover can easily cost hundreds of dollars, and interior artwork can climb into the thousands. That’s before layout, editing, promotion, or anything else enters the equation.

People often tell me to use stock art. Okay. Please show me where I can find stock art for a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex with gorilla arms, vulture wings, and a venomous tail. I’ll wait.

If I need a castle, a mountain, or a goat, stock art is wonderful. If I need a bizarre monster that exists only in the twisted recesses of my brain, the options become a lot more limited. That’s where AI entered my workflow; not because I hate artists, want artists to starve, and not because I’m trying to replace anyone. It’s because AI solved a problem that otherwise had no practical solution.

The choice wasn’t AI art versus commissioned art. The choice was AI art versus no art, and that’s a very different conversation.

There’s another aspect of this discussion that gets overlooked constantly: accessibility.

My friend, The OG GM, has dyslexia and other neurological challenges that can make writing and formatting difficult, which is a well-known fact to his friends, family, and strangers on the Internet. AI helps bridge some of those gaps. Sometimes it helps with spelling, sometimes it helps organize thoughts, and sometimes it helps transform rough ideas into something easier to work with. I help when I can, too. For free because that’s what friends do. Sometimes I wish I could help more.

What I’ve discovered is that a lot of neurodivergent people use AI in similar ways. They use it to reduce decision fatigue, organize schedules, draft emails, answer messages, summarize information, and break overwhelming tasks into manageable pieces. AI doesn’t make ADHD, or Autism disappear. It doesn’t magically solve anxiety, depression, dyslexia, or executive dysfunction. What it can do is remove a few obstacles and reduce a little friction, and for some people, that’s a bigger deal than critics seem willing to acknowledge.

Now before anyone starts sharpening pitchforks, let’s address the obvious concerns.

Some artists are losing work, and that’s real. Some companies are absolutely using AI to cut costs, and that’s real too. Some people are flooding storefronts with low-effort junk generated in five minutes. I’ve seen it, and you’ve seen it. Pretending those things aren’t happening would be dishonest. Likewise, concerns about energy usage and infrastructure deserve discussion. Every major technological shift comes with consequences, and none of those concerns are imaginary.

What frustrates me is the lack of nuance. The conversation often feels like it has only two positions: either AI is the greatest thing ever invented, or AI is destroying creativity forever. Reality rarely works that way. Most people end up somewhere in the middle. Most people aren’t trying to destroy art or artists; they’re simply trying to solve problems using the tools available to them.

The thing that concerns me most isn’t the technology; it’s the growing divide inside the TTRPG hobby. Communities are splitting apart, conventions are debating policies, creators are choosing sides, and people who probably agree on ninety percent of everything else suddenly can’t stand each other because of one issue. That’s sad, especially in a hobby built on imagination and collaboration.

The truth is AI isn’t going away. Search engines use it, Microsoft Word uses it, WordPress uses it, customer service departments use it, and my dentist’s office uses it after hours. Most people interact with AI every day whether they realize it or not. Technology changes, people adapt, and nobody is rushing to bring back eight-track tapes or demanding a return to typewriters. The world keeps moving forward.

That doesn’t mean every technological change is good, but it does mean some of them become permanent. Sewing machines still exist, but they don’t closely resemble the ones from a hundred years ago.

My position is pretty simple.

Creators who want to make everything by hand should absolutely do so. Creators who want to hire artists should absolutely do so. Customers should absolutely support the creators they believe in. I have no interest in telling anyone what tools they should use; I just want the same courtesy in return.

I’ve been in this hobby for decades. I’ve written for small publications, and I’ve watched entire eras of gaming come and go. The one thing I’ve always loved about tabletop roleplaying games is that anyone could create something. Anyone could write an adventure, build a world, invent a monster, and contribute. That spirit is worth protecting.

You don’t have to agree with my choices. You don’t have to like AI, and you don’t have to use it. But I do believe people should be free to create using the tools available to them, especially when those tools help overcome barriers that might otherwise prevent them from creating at all.

At the end of the day, I’d rather spend my time creating worlds than fighting culture wars. The hobby is big enough for all of us, or at least I’d like to believe it is.