I started playing Dungeons & Dragons right around the time I completely gave up on Facebook. It was a little less than a year ago, as the first stories broke about the Cambridge Analytica scandal. I was sick of the social media idea of friendship, defined as likes or shares or “X knows the same 50 people you know.” So when my friend Kate suggested we start a game of Dungeons & Dragons, I thought, “Yes, I’m going to get together with people face-to-face, without any hearting or retweeting, and we’re going to eat chips and fight those damn cultists who are trying to resurrect the evil, five-headed dragon queen Tiamat.”

Until then, I had played a little D&D as an adult, but I hadn’t joined a group that met regularly. But I am basically the target demographic for “Stranger Things.” Like the characters on that show, I played D&D in the 1980s with a group of geeky guys every day at lunch throughout the sixth grade, slaying vegepygmies in a crashed spaceship and meeting the great demon Lolth in her sticky transdimensional web.

Kate became our dungeon master, the narrator of our adventure, who sets the scene using maps, dice, flowery language and silly accents. We were joined by seven other friends around my dining room table, eager to take on the roles of fighting monk, rogue, sorcerer, warlock, paladin, bard and cleric. As soon as Kate told us to fill out our character sheets, I remembered the feeling of sheer awesomeness that had drawn me to the game when I was 11. I was about to become an Aarakocra cleric, a bird person with a divine connection to nature who could call down lightning, raise winds, grow plants from the barren earth and heal the dying with a touch.

But D&D isn’t only about inventing a more badass version of myself, with wings and magic powers instead of sneakers and a laptop. I was also drawn to the idea of building a social group whose baseline assumption was that we’d see one another regularly. There’s a sense of purpose to the gathering.