Upper Arlington High School

Serve  •  Lead  •  Succeed

The Dungeons & Dragons Club is definitely not building an empire.

I am so lonely. All the other Viltrumites are scared of me. No one talks to me. No one wants to be my friend, they think I am unstable. They send me from planet to planet committing atrocities in their name. And as I get better at it, they fear me more and more… I am a victim of my own success. Conquest… I don’t even get a real name, only a purpose. I am capable of so much more and no one sees it. Some days I feel so alone I could cry but I don’t, I never do, because what would be the point? Not a single person in the entire universe would care. … Take it to your grave.

Born from harmless hobbies and deeply theatrical office supplies.

The public story is simple: we roll dice, explore dungeons, and debate whether a mimic belongs on student council. That story is true. It is also incomplete. Somewhere between the first campaign map and the third shared bag of pretzels, we discovered a higher calling: making every room feel slightly more organized and much more dramatic.

We do not seek domination in any practical sense. We seek the kind of legendary influence that causes people to whisper, "Who planned this so well?" and then slowly turn toward our folding table of binders, pens, and immaculate encounter notes.

Three phases. Zero menace. Maximum flourish.

Our so-called campaign for world domination is mostly a campaign for better club nights, better snacks, and a level of theatrical confidence that alarms absolutely no one.

Phase I

Conquer trivia night

We answer enough obscure fantasy questions that the cafeteria starts treating us like visiting nobility with backpacks.

Phase II

Annex the snack table

Through charm, labeling, and strategic napkin placement, we establish the most orderly refreshment zone in the realm.

Phase III

Replace chaos with binders

Once the color-coding begins, resistance collapses under the sheer beauty of an alphabetized campaign archive.

Portraits from the council chamber

Every clandestine club needs a cast of suspiciously competent figures. Ours just happen to be extremely photogenic and deeply committed to bit quality.

Illustration of a crowned twenty-sided die used as the club's ceremonial mascot.

The Crowned D20

Our ceremonial decision-maker. It has never rolled below dramatic and refuses to acknowledge ordinary outcomes.

Stylized portrait of a stern club leader wearing dark sunglasses.

The Chancellor of Vibes

Maintains morale, adjusts the lighting, and delivers every harmlessly dramatic announcement like it belongs in a season finale.

Club emblem featuring the words Dungeons and Dragons with a sword between them.

The Banner of Intent

A reminder that branding matters. If your secret society has a logo, people assume you at least own a laminator.

Illustration of a twenty-sided die marked with the D and D logo.

The Standard Issue Relic

Issued to all loyal adventurers, archivists, and future keepers of the snack ledger. Very official. Possibly enchanted.

Questions we are legally delighted to answer

Rumors spread quickly when a club arrives with maps, robes, and extremely tidy handwriting. For the record, please review the following clarifications.

Are you actually plotting to take over the world?

No. We are plotting to take over the sign-up sheet with punctuality, charm, and superior penmanship.

Why does your club introduction sound like a villain speech?

Because ordinary club blurbs rarely achieve greatness. Also, the dice respond better to theatrical commitment.

Should concerned citizens worry about capes, candles, or ominous binders?

Only if they dislike strong aesthetics, alphabetical order, or perfectly labeled snack inventories.

Join the fellowship. Bring a pencil. Act natural.

If anyone asks, this is a completely normal Dungeons & Dragons club devoted to imagination, storytelling, and hanging out after school. If anyone asks twice, hand them a character sheet, offer them a cookie, and recruit them immediately.

Enter the Registry