By Anthony Krones
If we were meeting for the first time, I’d probably have a big grin, a handful of dice, and some kind of over-the-top plot hook already forming in my head. That’s just how I’m wired. My name’s Anthony Krones — husband, father of six, lover of 80’s rock and sci-fi novels, disabled veteran, former pastor, storyteller, and “forever DM.” I’m the guy who has been rolling dice and building worlds since I was 15, when a group of friends wanted to play Dungeons & Dragons and I was the only one who had a shred of understanding of the rules. I took the plunge, cracked the books, and found myself in the seat I’ve never really left.
This year, I’m not just coming to the Holy Rollers Retreat — I’m bringing my DM screen with me. And honestly? I couldn’t be more excited.
I’ve been to the retreat for the past two years, and it’s become one of my favorite times of the year. It’s not just the games, though they’re fantastic. It’s the people. It’s the way the retreat blends faith and gaming in a way that’s rare and deeply meaningful. It’s the laughs that spill over the table when someone makes an outrageous choice in-game. It’s those moments when you stop and realize you’ve just experienced something special with the people sitting around you.
This year, I get to give back some of what I’ve received — the love, the inclusion, the joy. I get to run games for old friends (yes, even the ones who once yelled at my character, “Dang it, Valsys, stop touching things!”) and new ones I haven’t met yet. And I may have a little surprise up my sleeve for both players and fellow DMs… but you’ll have to be there to find out.
My story as a Dungeon Master started like a lot of others: with a group of friends who were curious but clueless. I was 15, and my buddies wanted to play this mysterious game I’d told them about — Dungeons & Dragons. None of us had a mentor, no older sibling to show us the ropes, no veteran player to lead the way; just me having listened while my parents and their friends played and my first times getting to play when I was 12 until I was 14. What we did have was a Player’s Handbook, a set of dice that felt like they had been forged in the fires of destiny, and an unshakable curiosity.
Somebody had to learn the rules. That somebody was me.
I remember sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, flipping pages, trying to make sense of the jargon. THAC0. Saving throws. Armor class. It was like deciphering an ancient language. But once I started understanding it, the game stopped being intimidating and started becoming a playground. I wasn’t just learning how to run a dungeon — I was learning how to build an entire living, breathing world.
That first game was a mess. The plot was barely coherent, my rules knowledge was shaky at best, and half the monsters I threw at the party were wildly unbalanced. But we had fun — the kind of fun that makes you lose track of time.
And that was it. I was hooked.
Since then, I’ve run literally hundreds of adventures across countless systems and genres. I’ve helmed more than a hundred campaigns — some that ended in epic victory, others that sputtered out like a torch in the rain. Every single one taught me something. Some taught me the value of pacing; others taught me how to read a table’s mood; and some taught me the hard truth that not every story is meant to be finished.
Being a “forever DM” wasn’t a title I chose as much as one that chose me. People seemed to enjoy the way I told stories, and I enjoyed crafting them. It wasn’t just about combat or loot — it was about the shared creation of something memorable.
Over the years, I’ve experimented with every style I could think of. I’ve run political intrigue campaigns where every whisper mattered, sprawling sandbox adventures where players could chart their own destinies, tense horror scenarios where the table sat in silence because the next dice roll could mean everything, and lighthearted romps where the main villain was a goose with a grudge.
And through it all, I learned the most important DM truth: the game is about the people.
Gaming became more than a hobby; it became a lifeline.
My journey hasn’t exactly followed a straight road. I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life — a member of the US armed forces, pastor, writer, husband, father. Each role has shaped me in ways I didn’t expect, and each has taught me lessons that somehow, almost mysteriously, weave their way into the way I run games.
I served in the military, and like so many others, that chapter left marks — both the kind you can see and the kind you can’t. I came home a disabled veteran, with some wounds that never really fade. Later, as a pastor, I had the privilege of walking alongside people in their highest highs and lowest lows. I thought I’d be doing that work for the rest of my life. Then came my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis. The MS changed the way I could serve in ministry, and it forced me to reimagine what my daily life could look like.
I’ll be honest — that transition was hard. There’s no tidy way to say it. The things I thought I’d always be able to do were suddenly off the table. My days became full of adjustments, new limits, and learning when to rest. But here’s the thing: when life closes one door, sometimes it cracks open another. And for me, that door led straight back to the game table.
Gaming became more than a hobby; it became a lifeline. It was a space where my physical limitations didn’t define me. I could still craft worlds, create epic battles, and tell stories that brought people together. I could still laugh until my face hurt when the party decided to do something utterly ridiculous. I could still build connections.
My faith didn’t get left behind in this shift — if anything, it deepened. I started to see parallels between the stories we tell around the table and the stories I’d preached for years. Both are about transformation, redemption, sacrifice, and hope. Whether it’s a player character redeeming a copper dragon who was a friend and ally the first year (yes, that happened at the retreat!) or the prodigal son returning home, there’s a thread of grace running through it all.
That’s part of why the Holy Rollers Retreat has meant so much to me. It’s one of the few places where I don’t feel like I have to split myself in two — where my faith and my love of gaming meet in the same room. And in that room, I’m not “the guy with MS” or “the veteran” or “the pastor.” I’m just Anthony. A fellow adventurer.
When you’ve been running games for as long as I have, you collect moments — the kind of moments that get retold years later at other tables, sometimes exaggerated, but always remembered. They’re the “campfire stories” of gaming. And believe me, I’ve got a treasure chest full of them.
Take “Dang it, Valsys, stop touching things!” for example. That was my character at the second retreat, and let’s just say Valsys had a knack for curiosity. And by “curiosity,” I mean getting the party into trouble on a semi-regular basis. It became such a running joke that people were saying it before I’d even announced what my character was doing. You know you’ve left a mark when your party starts preemptively scolding you.
Then there’s the time in one of my home games when I pulled off one of my all-time favorite twists: a player was secretly the BBEG — the Big Bad Evil Guy — the entire time. They’d been planting seeds in character from the very first session, and the rest of the table had no clue. When the big reveal hit, the player got to stand up, grin, and give the full villain monologue. It was delicious. You could feel the shock ripple through the room. Players love to beat the villain, but sometimes, watching them realize they’ve been traveling with the villain all along is even better.
Not every moment is about shocking twists, though. Sometimes it’s about heart. Like my first year at the retreat when we saved St. Leroy, an NPC (former Player Character from a previous retreat) who was missing and people wanted to find. Or the copper dragon redemption arc — a storyline that carried over from one retreat to the next, where a creature once an ally and friend became an ally again through the party’s persistence and compassion. Those are the kinds of stories that make players’ eyes light up when they talk about them months or even years later.
And, of course, there are the gloriously ridiculous moments. Another home game with the goose with a grudge. The time a party spent half an hour debating whether or not to knock on a door (spoiler: they shouldn’t have). The epic nat 1’s that turn a triumphant plan into complete chaos.
These moments stick because they aren’t just my stories — they belong to the whole table. That’s the magic of being a forever DM. You’re not just telling a story at people; you’re telling a story with them. And when it all clicks — when the table laughs together, gasps together, or sits in stunned silence together — you know you’ve done something special.
“But here, I’ve felt nothing but inclusion and acceptance.”
When I think about the Holy Rollers Retreat, I don’t just think about games. I think about people.
Over the past two years, I’ve had the privilege of sitting across the table from folks who came in as strangers and left as friends. Some of them I only see once a year at the retreat, but when we meet again, it’s like no time has passed. We pick up mid-laugh, mid-story, like a party resuming a quest after a long rest.
The retreat is unique because it’s not just about rolling dice; it’s about rolling them in a place where faith and fellowship are as much a part of the experience as the game itself. There’s something profoundly moving about playing in a space where prayer and playful banter can coexist, where encouragement is as common as critical hits.
I remember my second retreat fondly and vividly. I wasn’t a DM then — just a player eager to dive into whatever adventure was on offer. That’s when the infamous “Dang it, Valsys, stop touching things!” line was born. My character had a tendency to investigate anything that looked remotely interesting… which, as it turns out, is a great way to set off traps and accidentally trigger encounters. By the end of the retreat, it had become a catchphrase. Even now, it’s one of my favorite shared memories.
Then there’s the shared continuity of stories from year to year. Like the copper dragon redemption arc — a moment from the first year that got picked back up the second year. I’ve always loved when stories have threads that tie them together, and it was incredible to watch players remember details, care about outcomes, and choose compassion over combat.
It’s not just the big plot points that make the retreat memorable. It’s the small things — sharing a meal with new friends, swapping dice for the sake of superstition, or staying up too late talking about characters as if they were real people. It’s seeing someone light up because they’ve just had their first-ever natural 20, or watching a shy player grow more confident with every session.
And honestly? It’s also the way I’ve been received. With my disabilities, I sometimes worry about being a burden or standing out in ways I don’t want to. But here, I’ve felt nothing but inclusion and acceptance. The leadership has created a culture where everyone has a seat at the table — literally and figuratively.
This year, I get to step behind the DM screen at the retreat for the first time. And I know, based on the memories I already have, that we’re about to create a whole new set of stories worth retelling.
This year feels different. Not just because I’m stepping into the role of DM at the retreat for the first time, but because it feels like all the threads of my story are coming together in one place. My love of gaming, my passion for storytelling, my faith, my friendships — they’re all going to be sitting at the same table.
I’ve been dreaming about this since the moment last year’s retreat ended. Don’t get me wrong — I’ve loved being a player the past two years. Some of my favorite retreat moments happened from the other side of the DM screen. But there’s something about running a game — guiding the flow, setting the stage, and watching the players take it in unexpected directions — that I can’t get enough of. Now I get to do that in an environment I love, with people who inspire me, and in a setting where the joy isn’t just in the game but in the gathering.
Part of my excitement comes from seeing familiar faces again. I can already hear some of them teasing me about Valsys before we’ve even rolled initiative. I can picture the table banter, the playful rivalries, and the way a single in-character decision can spark a half-hour of gleeful chaos. But I’m equally excited to meet new players — people I’ve never gamed with before, who will bring their own energy, creativity, and surprises to the table.
And yes… I’ve got a surprise planned. I can’t tell you what it is — that would ruin it — but I can say this: it’s something designed to make both players and fellow DMs smile, laugh, and maybe even do a double take. It’s not just about the story I’m running; it’s about the experience of being at the table together.
The vibe I want to bring this year is the same one I’ve received every year I’ve attended: love and acceptance, inclusion regardless of ability, and a shared enthusiasm for this game we all love. My hope is that players leave my table with stories they can’t wait to tell — stories they’ll still be laughing about in the dining hall later, or maybe even still talking about at next year’s retreat.
If all goes well, this year’s retreat won’t just be another week of gaming for me. It’ll be another chapter in a much bigger adventure — one that started when I was 15, learning THAC0 on my bedroom floor, and has somehow led me here, to a table full of friends in a place where rolling dice is just another way to roll for joy.
For me, being a Dungeon Master is about far more than just knowing the rules or having a stack of stat blocks ready to go. It’s about creating a shared experience — one where every player feels like they belong, where their choices matter, and where the table itself becomes a place of trust.
Storytelling is at the core of everything I do. I love weaving descriptions that pull people into the world we’re building together. If we’re in a forest, I want players to hear the wind in the leaves and smell the damp earth. If we’re in the heat of battle, I want them to feel their pulse quicken as the clash of steel rings out. But I also believe that the story belongs to all of us, not just to me. The best games are the ones where the players’ ideas shape the narrative as much as mine do.
I’ve learned over the years that DMing isn’t just about rolling dice and describing monsters — it’s about paying attention to people. I make a point of checking in with players, especially after a tense or emotional scene. It’s important to me that everyone at the table feels safe and supported, both in and out of character. That’s something I deeply appreciate about the Holy Rollers Retreat as a whole — the leadership models that same kind of care, and it makes a huge difference.
I’m also a big believer in showing the excitement I want my players to feel. If I’m leaning into a moment — whether it’s a dramatic revelation, a comedic twist, or a nail-biting encounter — the players feed off that energy. And when they’re excited, they start making bold, creative choices that make the game even better.
Some of the most memorable sessions I’ve ever run weren’t the ones with the most epic battles or the biggest loot. They were the ones where the characters grew, relationships shifted, and players created moments they’d still talk about years later. At past retreats, that’s looked like saving St. Leroy, or watching the redemption of a copper dragon. Those stories linger because they matter to the people who lived them at the table.
At the end of the day, my goal as a DM is simple: I want my players to leave the table feeling like they’ve just been part of something they couldn’t have experienced anywhere else. Whether they leave laughing, shocked, or a little misty-eyed, I want them to carry that story with them — and to know they had a hand in making it happen.
Every good campaign has a moment when the party stands at the threshold — the road ahead unknown, the stakes high, but the promise of adventure too tempting to resist. That’s exactly how I feel heading into this year’s Holy Rollers Retreat.
I don’t know exactly what will happen at my table. I don’t know which characters will emerge as heroes, which will make the wildest choices, or which will accidentally (or intentionally) set my best-laid plans on fire. But I do know this: we’re going to create something unforgettable.
The retreat isn’t just a weekend escape. It’s a gathering of storytellers, dreamers, and dice-rollers who believe that games can be more than just games. They can be places where friendships are forged, where faith and fun sit side by side, and where everyone has a place in the story — no matter who they are or what they’re carrying with them.
That’s what I’m here for. That’s why I’m excited to sit behind the DM screen, watch the first dice hit the table, and see where you all take the story. Maybe we’ll laugh until we can’t breathe. Maybe we’ll hold our breath as a single roll decides the fate of the realm. Maybe we’ll have one of those quiet, surprising moments where a game about elves and dragons suddenly feels deeply human.
If you’ve been to the retreat before, you already know the magic I’m talking about. If this is your first year, I can’t wait for you to experience it for yourself. And if you happen to find yourself at my table, know this: I’m ready for whatever you bring to the story. Your ideas, your creativity, your sense of humor, your heart — all of it belongs here.
So pack your best lucky dice, bring your best character ideas, and get ready. The adventure is waiting. The map is in front of us. The quest begins when we sit down together.
And if you hear someone say, “Dang it, Valsys, stop touching things!” — well, you’ll know you’re in the right place.
Roll for Joy 
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