Using Class Primers to Help with a Vibe

Night is a setting for my heavily-customized 5e game. I was a coward when I first started running it and allowed all the base classes, though I did require players to read the following text boxes for their class. 

I actually think this worked really well, to be honest. I didn't need to spring too much lore on them in game but it was enough they understood that this was a different type of game with a different feel--a different vibe--and it let them get into character quickly. As they grew more comfortable with the story, it stopped really even feeling like 5e, though we used the same base ruleset. This is actually where I began formalizing my Game Vibes theory. Build the vibes to build a fun game, beyond the rules themselves. 

Anyhow, if you're at all interested what this looked like in practice, I copied my class primers below: 

Classes: Classes suggest social roles, and NPCs need not use these specific rules

Barbarian: There is no urban, cosmopolitan impulse, nor distinct nationalities, in post-Sundown Taurica, so “barbarian” likely reflects more on the character’s personality, such as their penchant for rage or their devotion to pagan idols instead of the Church. It could also refer to a character from a particularly-remote region where agriculture is not practiced and humans live more nomadic lives. In Chalcedon, ‘barbarians’ would see no particular stigma, though they may draw attention as curious outsiders. 

A player barbarian might seek the sunstone simply to gain their power, with less question about their theological importance. Who wouldn’t want to live forever?


Bard: Bards are a common fixture of social life in Taurica and generally well-received. They are among the most common itinerant travelers and their storytelling is the primary news-sharing organ for lay people. With the vast majority of production being local, professional merchants are uncommon, so bards usually play that role as well, leading caravans of both performers and specialty goods such as jewelry or exotic metals. Their arrival in a new town is usually heralded as a fair, where they stage productions and market their goods.

“Bard” is a common term, but they are as often known simply as “caravaneers,” “travelers,” or “

Most bards do not possess spellcasting ability, but many have learned similar tricks and even some minor conjurations from their fellows on the road. Bards that possess such power generally include it in their act, with many even posing as full-fledged magicians. 


A player Bard possibly seeks adventure and new material for their storytelling, as the Sunstones always promise drama and excitement far greater than rural life can ever rival. 


Cleric: Overwhelmingly, clergy serve the Church of the Night Mother, which leads worship in nearly every village in Taurica. The church fills many roles in society, being often the only source of organized social services. As such, clerics are respected but commonplace enough that individual clerics do not impress commonfolk through rank alone. 

Within the Church, clerics belong to one of many Orders, each with their own internal politics and theological foci; at its head, the various Bishops and Mothers Superior decide Church governance via complex elections. Though socially generous,the Church is still temperamentally conservative and views the maintenance of tradition as its most important role, which can frustrate reformist clergymen.

Clerics with divine abilities are viewed as particularly impressive, though it does not technically allow them to skip stages as they rise in the church hierarchy. Nearly all bishops and Mothers Superior have great divine ability. 

Generally, male clerics are addressed as “father,” while female clerics are addressed as “mother,” though the generic “priest” can apply to either.

Clerics can exist outside of official Church hierarchy, but all true clerics draw their power from the Night Mother, so a player may be a heretic but they can never be a heathen. 

A player Cleric could be investigating the Sunstones: the church has yet to form an official policy on the metaphysical qualities of the stones or the significance of their use, and the cleric is attempting to learn more.


Druid: Druids represent animist faiths that were ancient even in the time of the Sun. The majority of NPC “druids” are simply lay members of woodland cults. Druids with true divine power are rare, and a player’s chosen Circle represents the last members of that order. The disappearance of the Sun is of enormous importance to all druids, most of whom seek its return though with no clear concept of how. Some druids revere the Moon and actively oppose the restoration of daylight, however. 

There is no overt social stigma against Druidism; which most see as harmless folk tradition. The Church of the Night Mother discourages nature worship but tolerates it as a misguided worship of the Night Mother’s blessings. 

Player druids are likely agents of their order, seeking sunstones as part of a larger plan to restore the sun or maintain its absence. It is possible, given the hierarchical and secretive nature of druids, that the player does not even know why they are so assigned. 


Fighter: Large-scale warfare is rare in Taurica, so fighter PCs are likely more akin to roaming quest-knights, monster-hunters, and treasure-seekers than soldiers. In most towns, crime and punishment is handled by ad hoc assemblies of citizens; only the larger settlements have dedicated warriors working as bridge-guards, monster hunters, or similar order-enforcing roles. Particularly-gifted fighters may abandon such mundane work and elect a nomadic, if challenging, life.

Local folk generally react to newly-arrived fighters as one might view any heavily-armed stranger: with suspicion until they are better known. 

Fighters are an enormously-diverse group, but a player-fighter could be a youth with a longing for adventure instead of humdrum village life or a swordsman seeking a compelling foe. Pursuit of sunstones promises adventure, danger, and more.


Monk: Monks represent religious figures who have accepted sacred poverty, but not necessarily the specific education to become an ordained priest. Monks are sworn members of a monastic order, and are fundamentally religious figures, not martial. Monks are sworn not to bring death upon any human, venerate the Night Mother, and to always serve the needy. That aside, they enjoy particular freedom with few professional responsibilities.

Monks are literate, and in fact often the best-educated people in any particular town, as they can give themselves over to reading and writing full-time while the local priests need to minister and serve their flock. Monks are often employed as teachers in the church schools, helping smallfolk gain a grasp of basic literacy, numeracy, and theology. 

This same combination of free time and erudition feeds another trait not universal, but common, among the monks: their specific study of athletics and martial prowess. The ancients felt a strong mind was wasted in a weak body, and many monks agree, dedicating significant sums of time to exercise and even outright aestheticism; a rare trait in this age. 

The central class concept of ‘Ki’ is an abstraction the monk may or may not make; they would certainly use a term such as “energy” or “inner light” instead.

Monks can be odd, colorful characters, and many do not always live up their vows. However, it is rare for them to be truly malicious or bellicose. 

Like clerics, monks are usually referred to as “brother” or “sister,” though they do not have any particular legal authority and enjoy no special privilege except respect. Itinerant monks that wander from town to town preaching and begging are known specifically as “Friars.”

A monk PC would most likely be driven by a desire to solve the mystery of the missing sun; their martial prowess being borne of their unyielding faith rather than any ideological obsession with unarmed combat. 


Paladin: Paladins represent the executive arm of the Church of the Night Mother, where they belong to an order known specifically by that name. Paladins are the church’s ultimate answer to crises, and they can expect significant support from local religious officials. Despite this, paladins are not aristocrats--like monks, they are sworn to individual poverty and can never own more than they can carry on a single horse. 

Unlike monks, paladins are legally and theologically empowered to take human lives, though they are expected to perform full rites for the deceased and provide a report of their actions to the local parish. Paladins are expected to master a variety of weapons, but consider the sword the most vital and the lance the most noble. Beyond warfighting, paladins are expected to be leaders, organizers, and planners in a wide range of disasters, from outbreaks of disease to wildfire evacuations. 

Paladins are recruited, often from church orphanages, though volunteers are accepted. Squires must demonstrate unfailing self-control, generosity, piety, and mercy for a period of at least three years before swearing themselves to the Order, while they are trained in combat, theology, and etiquette. Once sworn, they are granted relative freedom to travel from parish to parish, seeking injustice. Most paladins swear themselves to a particular “Quest,” which can be anything from a hunt for a particular criminal to a yearslong attempt to recover a lost relic. At any moment, a Paladin can be ordered into service by a bishop, most typically in response to the appearance of monstrous creatures. 

Paladins are among the most beloved members of society. Paladins of particular bravery and beauty are common heroes in folktales; young children often play Paladins and Dragons with sticks as swords. It is a difficult and demanding life, however, spent primarily in travel from calamity to calamity, and relatively few people devote themselves to it. 

Not all paladins carry divine powers as per the Paladin class; however, members of the Order are generally competent, intelligent, and charismatic individuals; they are almost never corrupt. 

Paladins are addressed as “Sir” or “Lady,” as per their choice, with high-ranking paladins being “Masters.”  Male paladins have a greater tendency to fall in love during their travels and leave the order to become fathers than their counterparts, causing the Masters to skew slightly female.  Even the most-lauded paladin Master is expected to consort with the lowest members of society and model endless grace and forgiveness even upon the lowest sinners.


A player paladin is possibly a “missionary” sent by a larger Cathedral to support the local parish. Sunstones are associated with the appearance of monsters and occult forces; it is the church’s duty to protect the flock from such abominations. The stones themselves are worthy of study.


Ranger: Rangers are omnipresent in Taurica, if rarely seen. Hunters, guides, spies, and even mercenaries at times, rangers are the most common people found traversing the nearly-endless wildlands. Though most are more comfortable in the veil of shadow than the firelit towns, human civilization could not survive without them.

Travel is difficult in the shadowed forests. Rangers specialize in surviving the gloom, and in their travels often encounter inexplicable relics of the bygone age. While they lack any central organization, the men and women who make their living along dark footpaths tend to recognize one another easily and have become the class most knowledgeable about the Sunstones, their mysterious appearances, and their effect on the world around them.

While rangers in general can be from any number of backgrounds, a particular subgroup are the rangers called Vigilants. They are the descendents of the last centralized human kingdom, an elite force meant to protect the crown’s far-flung estates even amidst the gloom. Their mission failed, yet their tradition descended through generations of new recruits. Today, they form an unofficial brotherhood that cooperate to protect civilization from the alien threats lurking in the dark.  

A player ranger is likely in pursuit of sunstones not only out of ambition and curiosity, but because they have seen firsthand the fiery trails they cut through the night sky, and the bizarre warping effect they wreak upon the nearby life that is normally so calm and mundane. 


Rogue: Rogues are not a social class so much as a temperament: those for whom idyllic rural life will never be enough. Jokesters, thieves, con artists; they are bored by agriculture, disinterested in raising a family, and unimpressed by piety. In any town, there are a handful of such characters: second sons about whom everyone has a(n often alcohol-fumed) story; pretty daughters who just can’t seem to settle on a husband; children who just don’t act or feel the way society wants them to. Often, if the pressure of conformity grows too strong, such characters set out to wander the Night, hoping to find a place where they can finally feel at home. 

More darkly, rogues can represent those who, for whatever reason, harbor a desire to inflict pain or death on other humans: a predilection highly-alienating in the cohesive village-communes of Taurica. 

A player rogue seeks a world beyond their village, which they likely view not merely as boring but actively stifling. The sunstones alone seem to offer a pathway to a life of color and the power to make their own destiny. 


Sorcerer: Sorcerers are heavily impacted by this setting. In Taurica, magic is rare, though not unheard of. Magicians exist, often as strange hermits but also as wandering showmen and miracle-workers for hire. These people sometimes possess limited power, but as frequently they are mere showmen; as such most people view talk of “magic” with polite skepticism. However, in rare circumstances, young girls are born with undeniable magical gifts. 

In early childhood, these gifts manifest in subtle and uncontrolled ways, but by early adulthood these women gain enough control over their powers they can exert them by choice. It is possible they have hidden their powers from those around them, but no sorcerer is surprised by her powers, which feel as intrinsic to them as their hands or eyes. 

Sorcerers are always women of surpassing beauty, which coupled with their magic lends them incredible social repute. Tall tales of cruel witches, kind enchantresses, and tempestuous conjurers wind their way through every culture in Taurica, rooted in both the reality of these women and healthy doses of human fabulation. Despite the ubiquitous stories, these women are vanishingly rare and nearly everyone who claims to have met one is lying. 

The true sorcerers, of whom there may be only a dozen at a time, are withdrawn figures of incredible power, engaged in mystical work beyond the understanding of common men. While presumably mortal, they seem to live forever, though there are legends of evil witches being dispatched by clever heroes. 

The existence of sorcerers--under any number of names, such as witch--is often doubted, but the Church of the Night Mother is aware of their factual existence. In secretive conclaves, they have for years debated the significance of these women: some seeing them as incidental and unimportant, some seeing them as a worrisome threat to be investigated, and others proposing divine relevance, even going as far as suggesting direct connection to the Night Mother. 

While mechanically any Sorcerous Origin is presumably acceptable, the player and DM must to reconfigure the framing, as all sorcerers in Taurica share a single Origin, the details of which are nebulously understood. 

The player should select an origin and use its ruleset, but to their knowledge there is nothing unique about their heritage and their unusual powers seem to have appeared purely by chance. 

While magicians of various kinds are common, and some even possess minor tricks, true sorcerers are singular to the point of being unique. 

A player sorcerer would most likely be a young woman, taking her first steps on the dangerous road to power. While entirely ignorant of the reason, she realizes her unique nature and seeks answers in the one thing as alien and powerful as herself: the sunstones. 


Warlock: To the common folk, “warlocks” are no different from sorcerers: mystical figures borne more of tall tale than reality, if always possibly lurking in the shadowed woods. However, warlock-like figures are in reality vastly more common, if typically less powerful. The specific mechanics of the Warlock class only apply to player characters: occultist NPCs may or may not follow warlock patterns. 

For players, Warlocks are mechanically unchanged, but occult forces in Taurica are even more veiled than elsewhere: whatever pact the warlock sealed mechanically, it behaves in-game as a pact with a particular, nameless Great Old One. There is no suggestion of what the alien entity is or what it desires, though it can grant any Pact. The player receives only vague and inscrutable omens, such as disturbing dreams or faint, momentary hallucinations. There are times they feel a compulsion to carry out particular acts, but these acts lack pattern and often lack apparent impact at all, such as opening a window at a certain hour or hunting down and killing a particular blackbird. Among these compulsions is a desire to acquire sunstones that surpasses all others. 

A warlock, by definition, would be a player character. Whatever their personal ambitions, they feel an overwhelming urge to seek and ingest the power of sunstones.



Wizard: Magic today is rare, but was once a central force in the sunbaked empires of old. Aside from the Church of the Night Mother, a single, obscure organization still maintains a fraction of its ancient power: The College of Taurica. 

The location of the College is secret, and so little is known of the organization many think it a myth. But the College is real, and for a thousand years it has survived more losses and battles than it can ever reveal. 

The College trains wizards in the ancient art of magic; specifically the potent form of arcane magic that once fueled empires. Wholly secular, the College’s magic relies on complex mathematical and philosophical theories understood by no other people today. As such, it poses no challenge to the Church of the Night Mother’s authority, with which it enjoys tacit relations as the only fellow intellectual body.  

Wizards themselves are academics, with no interest in political gain, conquest, or the acquisition of wealth. While powerful, their magic is far weaker than it was in ancient times, and their work is focused on research, rather than practice. 

The spellbook is the central tool of the class, and is a nearly-irreplaceable artifact. Fewer than one hundred spellbooks remain, all the creations of the mage-kings of ancient times. The bizarre runes and incantations scribed within are impossible to decipher, but they can be invoked and manipulated with proper study. As such, most people have no understanding of their value and would fail to recognize a wizard as opposed to a simple church scholar. 

Conversely, all wizards recognize one another on both personal and professional levels. 

Wizards generally prefer to remain cloistered together at the College proper with its abundant resources and endless library archives. 

Obsessive archivists, the 5 Regents of the College are well aware their roster is at an all-time low, with a total faculty of less than 50 wizards. 

The College is collegiate, but sensitive archival research is reserved for senior wizards, while newer initiates are often tasked with less-desirable field research. A player wizard could be relatively young and just beginning their career, having either been assigned or chosen to investigate the nature of sunstones. Authoring a pioneering paper on these could open doors to the most sensitive collections in the College library: the ultimate dream of any wizard.


Against the Internet

 It's too late. This kingdom is crumbling. We should take what few treasures we can carry and flee. The enemy isn't just at the gates--they're already inside. Our soldiers are abandoning their posts; many have disappeared; many have succumbed to the sickness that is eating this land from the inside out. We don't have long before this place is a wasteland and we have to be ready or we will lose everything.



I hear the internet used to be good. There were websites. People talked to one another and made friends. People shared recipes. I'm not sure what else they did, to be honest. I wasn't there. It's a hazy, mythic era full of vaguely-defined heroes; heroes which, as is usually the case with classic literature, don't always stand up to moral scrutiny. "Anonymous." Hackers. Dissidents in repressive states. Dissidents in free states. Perverts. All nebulously united in a grand experiment in personal freedom, the free exchange of information, and the creation of digital communities.

That has never been my experience. 

I'm going to stake out a radical position that I'll probably walk back, but until that time, I will believe fervently: the internet is a mistake, a bad thing built on a bad foundation, and a great deal of it is actively destroying the few good parts of it.

I'll start with the parts that you'll probably agree with, because you're reading this on the internet. I do like that I can read individual  people's work. "Blogs." A hideous word for the single best thing on the internet. I suppose for a lot of people they're "newsletters" now, which is less ugly but more pretentious; it also forces it to sound like a political thing. I don't want to get a "newsletter" from my favorite poet. My elementary school sent "newsletters."

I like to read, so I like being able to read lots and lots, and usually for free. That's nice. There are so many things I wouldn't have read if not for the internet. 

I also like, I think, being able to talk to other people I don't know in a mostly safe environment. That sounds specific because it is. I don't think anonymous chat sites are good ideas. I don't think most social media is a good idea. Ask me how many girls I know who have been groomed, stalked, harassed, blackmailed, or catfished online. I don't mean "got a nasty comment," either. I mean like actual adult men propositioning them; looking for their addresses; trying to break into their phones. Lately a lot of them have been put into AI and stripped. The AI doesn't seem to notice they're not 18; I guess you could just tell it they are.

I also like streaming music, though I live next to some of the best CD stores on this planet and have no intention to stop buying them. 

I think that's it. 

What, no Youtube?

No. That place is stupid. I don't like it. Skibidi doo away. 

But what about THIS video? It's a French artist's hand-drawn masterpiece! 

It's very impressive! Did you realize you're spending 14 hours a day on your phone? 

But this is how I learn about--

Shut up shut up shut up shut up

No, really, I learned how to unclog my drain-

Really, I believe you. Fine. Youtube is fine if you're using to unclog your drain or learn any other specific skill. Conservatively, what percentage of YT do you think that is? Did you ever notice there's a "Youtube Kids" and some kids spend hours a day staring at it? Did you ever notice these kids lose their minds when their tablet is taken away? Did you ever realize how scary that is? Did you know half my middle school couldn't read a paragraph without reaching for their phones?

Okay, what about Wikipedia?

I don't know. I don't use it that often. I have several actual encyclopedia and I live in a bookstore and I have a library card. 

But what if you have to look up the history of Guam?

I haven't had to. How often are you doing that? Or are you just flipping through pages, learning 1% of nothing, playing Reverse Trivial Pursuit at 11 AM?

What's Trivial Pursuit?

I played it a lot with my grandpa when he was in the hospital. I don't believe I literally ever got a question right. Most of the time I didn't even understand what it was asking. "Who played Porgie Bass in the 1945 BaseBall Film Man "Dog Dreamer Day?"'

Are you having an episode?

I don't think you need Wikipedia as much as you think. But sure, fine. It's probably the best thing on the internet. I do like knowledge. You can keep Wikipedia and YouTool. 

What else is there? Netflix? Eww. Lame. The only TV worth watching is reruns of SVU. Amazon? The evil company that's going to buy the sun? Meta? They're somehow even worse. ChatGPT? 

Don't say those words to me. ChatGPT, and the virus that animates it and all its sisters, are what's eating your world and reducing it to ruin. My hatred of the internet is powerless and impotent. I'm 5'2''. I don't like to use most websites but I can't keep them from you.

AI can. And will. It already is. It's turning everything to sludge. It's sucking up everything you write and everything everyone else writes and spitting out a slurry and there's nothing you can do to stop it. 

You're reaching a hysterical register. What are you talking about?

I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I'm getting angry. It's...probably not the internet's fault. It's probably fine. I might be getting irrational. This might not really be about the internet at all, or AI, or whatever I was trying to get at. 

Are you just bitter you deactived your TT?

I HAD A THOUSAND FOLLOWERS.

...


I'm going to post this because, at the very least, people deserve to see what I do when I'm cranky and it's 1 AM and I'm flopping around in bed and very very unhappy. I suppose it's exhibitionism?


Worldbuilding only matters if the Mechanics Support the World


Sword-Coast D&D is so dominant that it's not only the assumed setting for all D&D campaigns, it has become the default setting for essentially all western fantasy. When someone wants to break out of the mold they need to open their story with a rape or a brutal beheading; get that Game of Thrones energy on display, otherwise everyone is going to start looking around for kobolds. 

This isn't a bad thing; I like the Forgotten Realms, I think. It's a fun place full of adventure and bright colors and wizards and curses. I like fantasy. I love it, in fact. 

But I do sometimes want a different kind of story. One that doesn't slot into the same grooves as thousands of other games. We live in a world of imagination and I want to use it. So every now and then I'll bang together a new world, one utterly distinct from the Sword Coast, with a history and culture and its own monsters and cities and cosmology. And I'll drop my players into it, and--

Look, you know what happens. The same things. The fighter fights, the wizard casts his spells, they talk to people, they seek treasure, they make a balanced party. They do the same stuff, just in a different place.

I think this bothers some worldbuilders and leads to them starting to preach. "No, there's no monarchy in this land," they'll say after you roll a 9 on your knowledge check and they decide yes, absolutely sure, you know a little bit, and it is the following 6 paragraphs speech about a republican revolution led by Githyanki slaves; when you finish your players are texting and nodding, 4% more dead than before. Preaching is the enemy. Unless you're Homer, you're probably not cut out for it. 

But then how do you get the players to appreciate this world? They aren't interacting with it! They're just...playing D&D; it's as if they're in Waterdeep! 

It's one thing to create a new and specific setting; but if the players are given the exact same tools, they're probably going to keep using them in the same way. Why shouldn't they? They don't know the world and they sure don't want to study your dissertation; that's not why anyone plays an RPG. They want to be part of a world, not listen to someone talk about it. So how can you make them be part of it?

Take away their options. 

Well, you can add some, if you like. But I'd recommend stripping out; D&D is a hugely broad game. It might not be GURPS, whatever that is, but it allows for nearly any stock fantasy cliche. And that's the problem: you don't want a stock fantasy cliche; you want extensions of your world. So to do that: change the options. Outlaw classes, limit gear, change the game. Force them to realize they're not playing in Faerun! 

Obviously you should let them know beforehand; some people really want to play a Kenku. They're my enemy, these people, but I will grant them the right to happiness; provided they stay out of my group. Let them know this campaign has limits. Once the familiar tools are out of reach, they'll start grasping for new ones. And then they'll start gripping your world. And then you don't need to preach--they'll learn the world just by being part of it. 



History Article: We Have Always Eaten Bugs

 

Have you ever felt the urge to read someone's essay about insect eating? Well, today, my friend, is your extremely lucky day. I can almost guarantee you'll never find one quite like it!

This is one of my first major essays. I don't think you care about my homework but if you're curious what my nonfiction writing style looks like, here it is. I won't lie and say I'm not at least a little proud of it.

Oh, a quick note: My footnotes didn't copy over, so my claims look unsourced. My bibliography is at the end but they're disconnected. In the actual article, obviously, my sources were properly cited!


We Have Always Eaten Bugs



  1. The Worm’s Eye View


Bernadino de Sahagún arrived in Mexico in 1529, a mere 8 years after the collapse of the Aztec empire. From Veracruz he traveled to Mexico-Tenochtitlan; a city now in the midst of a furious reconstruction planned by Alonso Garcia Bravo. Much of the city had been rebuilt in the Spanish style, but portions of the old city still remained; the young friar must have walked in the ruins of the Templo Mayor, a colossal pagan temple, once ritually soaked in human blood. Something about this alien place enchanted the young friar: Sahagún commissioned a painting of the temple and spoke of it as “a thing very worthy of being seen.” Five hundred years later, a Spaniard might arrive in the same city and follow the same quadrangular streets, radiating from the National Palace out along what had once been the great Aztec causeways, and find something similarly puzzling: in the upscale markets and restaurants, the escamole, the nutty, buttery eggs of the Liometopum family of ants, for sale as a delicacy; with prices reaching well over $200 USD a kilo. 


Escamole is not alone. Chinicuiles, chahuis, chapulines--caterpillars, beetles, and grasshoppers; among many others--are widely consumed seasonal delicacies, in demand across Mexico. Entomophagy, the practice of eating insects, is common here, and has been since long before Columbus paid a fateful visit to the Catholic monarchs. Do not picture malnourished children plucking spiders from the trunks of blighted trees; these insect dishes are true culinary works. They can be fried, dried, seasoned, simmered; they have proper pairings and seasons and a geographic terroir. These are not famine foods; and yet, the historical literature surrounding entomophagy has struggled to capture this cultural status. Instead, the practice has been discussed--if at all--in waves of misunderstanding, beginning with colonial-era revulsion and moving to a 20th-century condescension, where a complex and refined element of Mexican culture was degraded and treated as merely a symptom of poverty.


It was not malice, generally, that created this loss--it was a product of historical methods. The history of entomophagy in Mexico is, in miniscule, the history of method. The practice itself has never particularly waned; even through the colonial era, escamole remained a sought-after luxury, eaten by rural people of all social classes. It was only among the urban Spanish colonists and the Europhile mestizo middle class that entomophagy was not widely practiced. What has changed is how the colonial, and later Mexican, elites tried to codify their knowledge of the practice. Early primary sources were created by European minds who viewed insect-eating with revulsion or, later, condescension. Neither lens is able to capture the reality of insects as a refined choice; even an art. Only recently have historians been able to give this practice the defense it deserves; putting into writing what generations of Mexica have known and experienced. 


This essay will examine how historians have moved from a dependence on traditional archival history to historic materialism, before embracing ethnography and social history to  arrive at the understanding of entomophagy as the vital element of cultural heritage that it is. It will then apply each method to a single source, to draw out the strengths and highlight the blind spots of each. This will demonstrate the importance of historical methods and the conscientiousness required by a historian seeking to genuinely study the human past. 


II. The Silence of the Crickets


We must not begin with Sahagún, despite temptation. His exhaustive history of Nahua society, now a cornerstone of Mexica studies, sat ignored in a royal archive for centuries; with the Codex’s first publication waiting until 1830. His serious, analytical approach is too humanistic to represent the colonial opinion of native customs; ironic, considering the missionary purpose of his work.  


Instead, for centuries the practice was more or less ignored, both by legal and intellectual authorities. Colonial governors were deeply threatened by certain elements of the indigenous diet--corn and amaranth in particular--but had relatively little to say about the consumption of insects. Hernan Cortes makes no mention of it in his letters to Charles V, despite an awestruck list of goods available in Tenochtitlan marketplaces, one that cannot be called terse: describing fowl alone he records “a street for game, where they sell every sort of bird, such as chickens, partridges, quails, wild ducks, fly-catchers, widgeons, turtle-doves, pigeons, reed-birds, parrots, owls, eaglets, owlets, falcons, sparrow-hawks and kestrels.” There are no laws on record regulating or restricting the practice of insect-eating, though the Spanish viceroys often attempted to restrict amaranth and mezcal consumption. As an example: Pulque, an indigenous  alcoholic drink made from the maguey plant, was once highly coveted in Aztec society, and experienced many regulations over the years from both the colonial and Mexican governments. Many modern works describe the ‘disgust’ the Spanish elite had for insect-eating: this is probably true, but few historical documents seem to attest to it. Instead, the Spanish preferred to import and lionize their own tastes, and allow endomophagy to linger in the colonial periphery.


The same is true for the academic world: In the 18th century, scholars would read Cortes’ lieutenant-cum-rival Bernal Diaz del Castillo’s True History of the Conquest of New Spain, compiled in 1568, as one of the only primary sources remarking on pre-Colonial Mexico. The aged conquistador makes no mention of insect consumption despite lurid passages describing human sacrifice and a lengthy description of the market of Tlatelolco: “But why do I waste so many words describing what was sold in the great plaza, for I shall not soon finish if I recount everything in detail!” he concludes after paragraphs of detail. There were few academic works touching on the subject, and what existed was limited in both quality and quantity. The best work was done by Catholic orders, drawing on their centuries of groundwork in Mexico. Even these have little to say about entomophagy: the practice is documented in Friar Juan de Torquemada’s colossus, Monarquia Indiana, which encompasses three volumes--described by D.A. Brading as “a remarkably dense text…rendered more wearisome by his editor’s garrulous commentary.” Insect-eating does finally appear in writing; but it is not discussed in any detail, not even disgust. Following Cortes and Diaz, he describes an Aztec marketplace in great detail in Libro 14, explicitly listing lombrices (earthworms), hormigas grandes tostadas (roasted ants), and later maguey, agave worms. This demonstrates that, to the academic circles who would read this tome, the practice was not unknown--it was merely ignored.


What accounts for this peculiar silence? Method. 


In the 17th century, the academic world was still emerging from medieval scholastic traditions. Torquemada’s work represented the most encyclopedic and ambitious project in Mexican historiography, but it was fundamentally limited by his method: a reliance on written accounts, combined with an overtly Christian apologia. Both of these are artifacts of their era; each has certain advantages, but each brings weaknesses to the Franciscan’s effort. 


The most straightforward weakness in Torquemada’s history is his sourcing. On the 40th page of the first volume Torquemada lists the scholars cited within: there are a few fellow Franciscans, but the list is dominated by names one mightn’t expect to see in a history of central America: Seneca, Suetonius, Avicenna, Averroes. Herodotus, of course. Torquemada cites nearly all of the canonical Greco-Roman scholars. There are a small handful of citations--a character called Tucio, “Stump” in Spanish--who could possibly be indigenous to the region, but each recognizable name is either Spanish or would seem more fitting for a text on Spanish, rather than Mexican, history. 


There is no reason to suspect this was done maliciously; Torquemada clearly has great interest in the people and history of “New Spain.” But he studied in the academic method of his day, which depended heavily on written accounts, generally composed by either fellow clergymen or the letters and statements of “great men;” which in the case of Mexico meant almost exclusively conquistadors or native princes; such as the Tlaxcalan elite who retained power after 1521 as a reward for their service in Cortes’ coalition. There is of course nothing wrong with using such sources: the Franciscans were literate and left meticulous records, the conquistadors are naturally an important voice in the story of Mexico, and the Tlaxcalan elite are genuine indigenous leaders. A history of the Aztec empire that neglected Diaz and Cortes would be leaving valuable information on the table. A reliance on exclusively such accounts, however, consigns not just facts but entire worldviews to oblivion--as nearly occurred here. Torquemada’s colossal project recorded thousands of pages of city names, of the wars of the Mexican nations, and elaborate comparisons of the Aztec empire to the civilizations of the ancient near east--thus his extensive references to Mediterranean antiquity-- but was limited in its ability to capture the lives and lifestyles of the indigenous people of ‘New Spain.’ To the extent that Torquemada was able to capture indigenous stories, it was in the service of extolling the natural virtues that Christian education brought out of them. 


The latter element is another obvious current running through his work: an insistence on the Christian character of the Mexican people. Torquemada wrote with an overt agenda. Mexican historian Antonio Rubial Garcia describes Torquemada’s work as “still imbued with the defense of the indigenous people that characterized the friar writers of the previous century.” He goes on to summarize the overarching purpose of Torquemada’s history: “Through (his) study, indigenous culture, particularly Nahuatl culture, was placed within the context of universal civilization, on par with Greece, Rome, or Egypt. This allowed for an explanation of the achievements of Christianity and revealed how the arrival of the Gospel was proclaimed in these lands during their pagan period.”


Torquemada’s work was fundamentally a defense of the Mexican people, in an age of intense religious chauvinism. As much as he worked to record the history of the Nahua, Tlaxcala, Mixtec, and other regional indigenous peoples, Torquemada had an overt goal: to demonstrate that Mexican history was comparable to that of the ancient near East; demonstrating that the Mexican people were not incapable of European-style civilization, but merely a few centuries behind, with souls and minds able to turn from bronze-age kingdoms to Christendom, as the great civilizations of the west had done. The stakes here are not low: while Juan de Torquemada reads as a deeply humane, curious mind, most Europeans likely recognize “Friar Torquemada” instead as the first Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition, Tomas de Torquemada, “whose name has become synonymous with the Christian Inquisition’s horror, religious bigotry, and cruel fanaticism.” The Inquisition was very much in power in Spain, and the status of the native people of the New World was ever in flux. Torquemada was attempting to give legitimacy to pre-Colombian civilization, giving dignity to its descendants, armoring them against identification as savages. 


This goal, noble though it may be, forced Torquemada to deliberately overlook elements of Mexican folk culture that did not lend itself to this message. It was one thing to list the consumption of strange and alien things in the markets of old Tenochtitlan; it would be wholly against his message to write of contemporary (at the time of his writing) Mexica continuing to engage with the practice--and so he doesn’t. 


Such is a great drawback of all politically-motivated history: any culture is infested with enough complexity, enough unsavory elements, and enough particularity that attempting to commit any large group of people to a single message will inevitably have to elide elements, lest it be punctured by thorny contradictions. In Mexico, insects formed a vital, valuable part of the rural diet for huge numbers of its people; in Spain, the consumption of insects would be seen as revolting. (Even in 2023, a survey of Spanish university students found only 20% claiming they would be willing to eat insects at all; fewer than 5% claimed they would be willing if they “saw insects in their natural appearance,” as they are traditionally consumed in Mexico.) Torquemada sought to downplay the exotic and alien in Mexico; his goal was quite the opposite. Emphasizing distasteful (by European standards) folk practices in Mexico could only weaken his argument and risk endangering the position of the peasant class the Franciscans considered their foundation in New Spain. The Spanish crown could not expel the Mexican natives en masse as it had the Iberian Jewish population in 1492 or the Moriscos in the early 17th century, but it certainly had the power to diminish what few protections they had. (For a more mercenary motivation, the crown also had the power to suppress the influence of the Franciscans if it seemed they were failing to properly “civilize” their flock.)


It’s impossible to know if Torquemada’s omission was intentional or an unconscious bias, but the question is moot; ultimately, this history was written from above, and carried with it the intrinsic bias created when any people’s history is written by someone who is, fundamentally, from a different and more dominant social class. However, what would follow next would completely re-order the academic understanding of entomophagy, as Torquemada’s classical methodology was replaced by a modern, industrial approach to the production of knowledge, where the consumption of insects would be recognized--and instead of ignored, misunderstood. 



III. Los Pobrecitos


In December 1943, trucks belonging to Mexico's Ministry of Public Health and Welfare carried medical doctors up winding dirt trails. They were headed  into the Mezquital valley; only 75 miles from Mexico City but far deeper in its past. It was, and remains, one of the poorest places in the Americas. Windswept, sunbaked, arid; almost completely devoid of natural resources. The doctors were on a mission to record, as exhaustively as possible, the health of rural Mexican villagers. The subjects of this particular study were Otomi Indians, living without electricity or running water. There were at most two wells in each village, and lice infested 90-95% of the population. These facts, and many more, were recorded as these modern men applied rigorous medical tests to these villagers, examining everything from their gum health to their birthweights to the nutritional breakdown of their diets. A single sentence lurks in their observations: “A variety of worms and insects are also eaten with relish.” This is not examined further; the practice was unremarkable to the doctors. What does seem to surprise the researchers is that these people, some of the poorest in the world, show almost no nutritional deficits at all. Their overall health is not particularly good; but their diets are beyond these medical men’s ability to critique. The study concludes: “In spite of the barrenness and poverty of the region its inhabitants have through many centuries developed food habits and a way of life adapted thereto. Attempts at change would be a mistake until their economic and social conditions can be improved and something really better substituted.” It is a strikingly generous conclusion, from one angle; but it anticipated the next great wave of entomophagic interpretation: entomophagy as a nutritional necessity; a practice engaged in for crude survival, “until something really better substituted.” 


The 20th century brought the first scientific analysis of indigenous Mexican diets, as part of a great wave of new academic enthusiasm for scientific and materialist approaches to what had once been the exclusive domain of the humanities. Anthropologists like Marvin Harris attempted to explain historical contingencies not as the products of the diplomatic maneuvers of states, but through previously-ignored environmental concerns; moving away from Thucydides and Leopold van Ranke towards a marriage of Karl Marx and Thomas Malthus. Most strikingly, he attempted to explain the origin of Aztec human sacrifice as a response to chronic protein deficits in their diet. Numerous studies similar to the 1946 survey followed, and trickled from the health services into the growing field of Mexican history. A new materialist conception took hold: the consumption of insects was indeed widespread and was motivated by the need to fill vital nutritional gaps; it was the product of poverty; it would, presumably, be replaced once better economic conditions allowed. 


There are great advantages to a multidisciplinary approach to history; particularly one that incorporates scientific principles. The nutritional breakdown of the highland Otomi diet is remarkably useful; it allows historians to situate dietary practices in the chemical reality of the human body. It is one thing to read Cortes’ account of an Aztec market; it is another to have some evidence that the people of central Mexico were in fact eating as well as he made it seem. The work of Marvin Harris displays an elegant command of scientific facts that he attempts to support his theories with, down to estimates of the edible biomass available from lake Texcoco and how many people it could theoretically support. The combination of nutritional science, anthropological theories, and a willingness to engage in fieldwork opens vital doors that a purely archival history can never access. 


And yet-- “A variety of worms and insects are also eaten with relish.” The learned doctors did not realize the importance of the statement; how could they? While they asked many questions about the specific elements of the Otomi diet, they had no interest in investigating the reason. They, like Harris, assumed the culture was downstream of the environment. This is a blind spot, one that lurks in the margins between the questions. Why did the Otomi eat “with relish?” Was it truly poverty alone? The questions were not asked; they were not part of the medical intention of the survey. And so no answers arose, and as before, it was possible that the learned world would once again look past this curious rural custom; once again see it and look straight through it. It is useful to read Sahlin’s response to Harris: it contains not only better mathematics, but also an entertaining footnote expounding on the nutritional value of cannibalism (underwhelming) and, most vitally, a refutation that should remind all aspiring theorists: no archival source, from Cortes’ to the Nahua codices, suggested that human flesh formed a major, reliable part of the Aztec diet; though cannibalism formed an element of ritual culture, there is no evidence whatsoever it was practiced on an agricultural scale. It was a conclusion reached entirely on specious math and broad assumptions about culture.


Meanwhile, Harris responds to the existence of entomophagy with utter disdain: “It is one thing to relish piquant morsels of witchety grubs and snails as a supplement to meat and fish, it is quite another to make such fare one’s primary source of animal flesh,”  he writes, dismissing the concept with no investigation at all. Such is the profound limit of his method. Like the doctors, he wished to speak about the people he studied more than to them. 


IV. The Worm Turns


All that was missing was a return to Sahagún. Specifically, to the combination of modern science with the friar’s prescient method, which drew heavily on a lifetime not only of archival research but lengthy interviews with the people he studied. In 1979, the Florentine Codex was reprinted in full, just as a new generation of scholars finally turned to the role of entomophagy in Mexican culture. These scholars worked to synthesize the best of academic history, scientific inquiry, and the then-burgeoning field of social history, buoyed by the continued success of such texts as Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class. Thompson focused on the everyday life of people long ignored by history, with interest in culture and values of those not traditionally considered powerful. In Mexico, this led to the immediate realization that insects were a delicacy, not a famine food. Jumiles and escamoles each had local shrines, maintained by the locals since the 15th century. In Mexico, the work of Julia Ramos Elorduy established that not only did Mexico’s edible insects “”provide the necessary energy to achieve the activities and vital functions of our organism,” they did so with significantly greater energy efficiency than the traditional meat animals in the European diet. By combining social history and the voice of indigenous people with scientific and archival study, the practice of entomophagy could finally be given the attention it deserves, as a vital element of indigenous Mexican culture. 


All of which returns us to the Florentine Codex. Sahagún’s work is exhaustive; the product of multiple lifetimes of work, and it provides enough depth to allow many methods of analysis. As an archival source, it is excellent; citing sources, organized by topic, carefully indexed. By including Spanish translations alongside the original Nahuatl, it remains accessible to modern scholars while preserving the source text. This helps correct for the inevitable omissions inherent in any translation-- despite Sahagún’s best effort, small deviations always emerge; unintentional but inherent due to the colonial structure of the project. The fragrant resin copal, for example, holds particular importance for indigenous Mexicans, burned ritually since pre-Colombian times, and yet it goes unnamed in the Spanish translation. Similarly, the Nahuatl is not entirely translated; with one prominent lacuna running from folio 192v to 197v; the columns are filled with illustrations instead. No explanation is provided, but these gaps suggest that even the best efforts at a colonial history will inevitably leave possibly-vital elements of indigenous cultures unstudied. Fortunately, the Codex allows for an elegant scientific analysis as well. It is not difficult to cross-reference Sahagún’s descriptions with modern biology, allowing historians to show specific insects mentioned within were seasonal delicacies, refuting the shallow materialist argument that consumption was indiscriminate and based on necessity. It is also easy to locate the most popularly-consumed insects, such as chapulines and escamole, in the Codex, corroborating the oral history of the practice. Conversely, the use of modern science can help limit some of the possible weaknesses of oral history: for example, on folio 89v the Codex gives space to an intelligent snake that lays aquatic traps for human beings; a page prior it described the iconic, biologically-impossible feathered serpent quetzalcoatl. Of course, a wise historian today understands these ‘creatures’ not as mere fabrications, or signs of Franciscan credulousness, but elements of indigenous culture, worthy of record even if their biological reality was unlikely. Properly read, using all the tools of modern historical method, the Codex becomes an even richer text than it was when Torquemada drew inspiration from it centuries ago. 



V. The Food Remains the Same


It is possible there remain new and unexplored avenues in history; there are likely many elements of human culture and history that lurk in the margins of our records, cut out from proper record by the inability of historian’s methods to center them. Historians must always remember that their tools shape their work, and they must be conscious of the strengths and drawbacks of each.


The history of entomophagy is a microcosm of the evolution of historical method. For centuries, the practice was ignored or misunderstood, the victim of the colonial era’s political and cultural agenda, or the 20th century’s rigid historic materialism. The “silence of the crickets” finally ended with the conscientious historian’s willingness to synthesize the best of multiple approaches. The final shift demonstrates that the choice of method need not be passive; and in fact the best history comes from the active decision to value the voices and reality of the people being studied. 


The food remains the same; only the method has allowed its truth to be written. 



Bibliography


Unpublished Sources:

Bernardino de Sahagún, General History of the Things of New Spain (Florentine Codex), MS 218-220, Book 11, fol. 177r, The Digital Florentine Codex, Getty Research Institute.

Published Sources:

Official Publications

Britannica Editors. "Tomás de Torquemada." Encyclopedia Britannica, September 12, 2025. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Tomas-de-Torquemada.

Articles

Álvarez-Ríos, G.D., Casas, A., Pérez-Volkow, L. et al. Pulque and pulquerías of Mexico City: a traditional fermented beverage and spaces of biocultural conservation. J. Ethn. Food 9, 40 (2022). https://doi.org/10.1186/s42779-022-00155-2.

Anderson RK, Calvo J, Serrano G, Payne GC. A Study of the Nutritional Status and Food Habits of Otomi Indians in the Mezquital Valley of Mexico. Am J Public Health Nations Health. 1946 Aug;36(8):883-903. PMID: 18016399; PMCID: PMC1625980.

Cantalapiedra, Fernando, Ana Juan-García, and Cristina Juan. 2023. "Perception of Food Safety Associated with Entomophagy among Higher-Education Students: Exploring Insects as a Novel Food Source" Foods 12, no. 24: 4427. https://doi.org/10.3390/foods12244427.

Díaz del Castillo, Bernal. "Text 3: Bernal Díaz: The Tlatelolco Market." An Aztec Folio. Translated by DKJ. Last modified September 6, 2025. pages.ucsd.edu/~dkjordan/nahuatl/aztecfolio/AztecFolio03-Tlatel.html.

Harris, Marvin, and Marshall Sahlins. "'Cannibals and Kings': An Exchange." The New York Review of Books, June 28, 1979. https://www.nybooks.com/articles/1979/06/28/cannibals-and-kings-an-exchange/.

Hirsch, Eric. (2021) 2023. “History”. In The Open Encyclopedia of Anthropology, edited by Felix Stein. Facsimile of the first edition in The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Anthropology. Online: http://doi.org/10.29164/21history.

Olivadese, Marianna, and Maria Luisa Dindo. 2023. "Edible Insects: A Historical and Cultural Perspective on Entomophagy with a Focus on Western Societies" Insects 14, no. 8: 690. https://doi.org/10.3390/insects14080690.

Ramos-Elorduy, B. Julieta (1997) The importance of edible insects in the nutrition and economy of people of the rural areas of Mexico, Ecology of Food and Nutrition, 36:5, 347-366, DOI: 10.1080/03670244.1997.9991524.

Ramos-Elorduy, Julieta. 2008. “Energy Supplied by Edible Insects from Mexico and Their Nutritional and Ecological Importance.” Ecology of Food and Nutrition 47 (3): 280–97. doi:10.1080/03670240701805074.

Rubial García, Antonio. "La crónica religiosa: historia sagrada y conciencia colectiva en el siglo XVII," Enciclopedia de la Literatura en México (ELEM) (2002). Translated from Spanish. https://www.elem.mx/estgrp/datos/160.

Books

Brading, D. A. (1991). The First America: The Spanish Monarchy, Creole Patriots, and the Liberal State 1492-1867. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Cortés, Hernán. The Letters of Cortés to Charles V, Vol. 1. Translated and edited by Francis Augustus MacNutt. 1908. Project Gutenberg. Accessed November 24, 2025. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28001/28001-h/28001-h.htm.

León Portilla, Miguel. Bernardino de Sahagún, First Anthropologist. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002.

Torquemada, Juan de. Monarquia Indiana. Vol. 2. Madrid: Nicolas Rodriguez Franco, 1723. Internet Archive. Accessed November 26, 2025. https://archive.org/details/monarquia-indiana.-vol-i_202109/Monarquia%20Indiana.%20Vol%20II/page/556/mode/2up.


Ye Ancient Post: "Birth of Sin"

 Do you remember the first time you knew the wrong thing to do, and chose to do it anyhow? A thing where the morality was clear, and perhaps the expedience was not even so great; the choice was simply wickedness, or not. And you chose wickedness?


Did it make your blood tingle? Did your eyes widen, if only a little? Did you feel the electric fire racing up your gut? 


I recall the first time I chose to sin. I remember the first time I chose sin. I remember my blood tingling, I remember my eyes widening, I remember the electric fire racing up and through me and out of me into the world around me, alighting it with ugly orange beauty. 


Did you feel shame? I felt shame. There would be no fun if there was no shame; the cold stab in the heart that persisted well after the humming orange light had faded. I trembled and wept. Did you wail? Have you wailed? I have wailed. I have sworn and sobbed, and yes, felt bitter pain over the way I am.


But in that wailing there was acceptance. I did not wail over what I had done. I wailed over what I was; I knew from the moment my blood first tingled at the thrill of evil that I could fight the urge, resist the call, choose virtue. My actions were mine to direct; I was not thrall to fate. But I was, in the core of my being, a thing of evil. 



Against Magic Systems, Volume I

  I don't really like magic systems. In fact, I'll go further: I don't like the idea of even calling magic a "system."...