Regarding The Halfling & the Knight.
I was able to attend a theater production with my family last Wednesday. As (generally) happens when I go to such a show, afterwards I find myself thinking back on my own theatrical "career" and wondering if I could still do the stage thing these days. Would I even want to? And while there's a part of me that loves and longs for the days of being an actor, I think the answer...at least to the latter question...is mostly "no." Not because I'm worried about making a fool of myself, or being brutally critiqued, but because of the WORK involved: the time, the effort, the rehearsals, the memorization, the simple building of chemistry with one's fellow players (not always easy, and often times frustrating). A lot of work for something I am far less passionate about these days compared to A) my family, and B) my gaming/writing endeavors.
Once upon a time, I had that love for acting.
The kind of D&D you wish to play requires that love. The event you describe is less (I think) about any inability to play the game, and far more about the lack of willingness to embrace the game being played.
And in this, I am referring to the druid player (not the others who supported her). The others walking out, that's an issue of social dynamics and a whole different ball o' wax, not pertinent to my response here.
The druid is not an easy class to play. I haven't seen many over the years, and I'm not sure I've ever seen one played well. It does not fit into the easy role that other adventuring classes do. It is somewhat like the illusionist in this way: extremely powerful within its own sphere of control, and much less effective than the other "generalists" of the group. If you go into the game with such a character while simultaneously burdened by a "traditional" outlook (fight the monsters, loot their bodies!) it's bound to be a rough go.
But when one EMBRACES the game, such issues of ineffectiveness cease to matter. You start looking at what your character IS, rather than what she is NOT. If you love living in the (imaginary) world, you must put yourself in the shoes of your character and approach the game from that character's angle, from their point of view. I am a halfling druid...how DO I "adventure?" If you love the game, if you embrace the game, you'll find your place in the world and on the team.
"Spotlight time" is a matter of perspective. One can ALWAYS find ways to get into the spotlight in an RPG. Finding a way to get into the spotlight in a way that is USEFUL and NON-DESTRUCTIVE (to the game, to the group) can be a tricky ask for some folks...but that's the game that's being played. Finding ways to contribute, so that the TEAM (and thus the whole table) benefits. For some character types...the low-level magic-user that's burned all his/her spells, for example...that can be more challenging. But it's not impossible. My most recent game has a 1st level MU whose only spells are "friends," "find familiar" (which he can't afford to cast), and "jump." In three fights he has not cast a single spell, nor done a single point of damage. But he has cared for and guarded the party's pack mule which (carrying their supplies) is their only lifeline in the desert environment they're exploring. And as an elf, he has other abilities (stealth, languages, immunities to charm, etc.) that will enable him to shine in areas where others don't...he WILL get his chance to contribute.
Your player seems to be taking the old adage "don't hate the player, hate the game" too much to heart. You, I grok, have little patience for this: the game is what it is, the player needs to get with the program. I, in my wishy-washy, hippy-dippy fashion, see this as a lack of love going BOTH ways. You need to embrace the player (not coddle her but help her to understand) and the player needs to embrace THE GAME (not just her kewl concept character that is "ineffective" when one tries to pound it into a round hole). More love, that's what's needed...in my opinion.
But I acknowledge that perhaps that won't work. The most recent editions of D&D have definitely bred a style of play where the player's only love is for their own individual character. This style is pervasive and its influence is far reaching. I don't know the relative age of your druid player, or whether or not she came from a 5E or video game background (either one teaches bad precedents). Narcissism is a deeply ingrained part of our culture (well, American culture for sure). It can be tough to overcome it, to retrain and unlearn. My recent strategy of "start 'em when they're young" seems functional enough, but that doesn't apply to adults. With adults you have to find a way to be both iron fisted AND uber-compassionate at the same time. It's a tough tightrope to walk, requiring a lot of effort.
Still, I suppose, folks who are passionate enough don't mind putting in that kind of work.
Answer: I agree that we need to embrace the player. I agree that that kind of work is necessary. But I feel strongly that this advice at the end spoils what would otherwise be an excellent series of astute observations and attitudes about game play and one's best approach to the game.
Throughout our lives, we are counselled endlessly to unleash the better angels of our nature, to reach out to others, to express the best parts of ourselves and so on. And while this is "good" advice, it's legitimate to point out how very, very rarely it produces the sort of result we wish. Yes, we cast that seed into the ground, and yes the seeds do grow ... occasionally. But we also cast one shit-ton of seeds upon that ground, sacrificing our time, our wealth, our wherewithal and often our dignity only to be rebuffed and slapped back, and told our "better angels" are manipulative bastards. We reach out to be screamed at, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" The best parts of ourselves are recast as patronising, pandering or, to use your word JB, narcissism.
I cannot say just how much money I've spent picking up the check for individuals and whole parties, only to watch friends melt away out of petulance, selfishness or indifference. Or how much money I've spent in other people's rents to help them over the "hump," or people for whom I've found jobs, or days I've spent buying groceries to make sure a sick friend's fridge is filled with juice and fruit, to help them get by. And this number of times is dwarfed by the myriad hours I've sat listening as people poured out their hearts but would not take my advice; as people cried on my shoulder but would not take my advice; as people gratefully appreciated my willingness to walk them all the way home so they didn't have to be alone that night ... but would not take my advice.
Where are those people now? Self-destructed, suffering the aftermath of their drug-addled or alcoholism choices, the aftermath of their failed marriages, the aftermath of their resistance to getting an education or doing anything to improve themselves ... and, thankfully, out of my life, where they now belong. Because I did the work, I took the time, I showed the uber-compassion, I carried their emotional baggage ... and when, finally, it was plain they were never going to put their baggage down, I decided I'd stop carrying it for them.
But it's this, most of all, that I think betrays you JB. Because I know you have done all this too, and that your compensation for it has been exactly the same as mine. Everyone who makes something of themselves, who does the work, who raises a family well, who sacrifices the easy fixes and fails to do the drugs and the liquor and the gambling and what else, has exactly the experience I have now. We all watch our lives get better while the lives of those people we constantly reach out to gets worse and worse. We tell them point blank what they need to do, we offer to sustain them until they do it, and for that they bitch in our face about how easy it was "for us" and how hard it is "for them."
The difference between us, JB, isn't that either of us have put in that kind of work; it's how much we're willing to lie to ourselves about what that kind of work can accomplish. I've never been the sort to tell someone else, "Give to your friend, they need it." I'll do my giving; I'll do it because that is my nature. But I won't lie to myself that this time it's going to be different, this time they'll see the light, this time they'll fix themselves and get their shit together ... because they won't. I don't do my work because I think they're going to get something out of it. I do it because I'm a mensch. I'm a human being. Because it's the decent thing to do. But not because they're going to suddenly become better because I sacrificed whatever.
You know, Canada is a cold bloody place a lot of the year. And a lot of the year, we have snow. Not the 10 feet that comes and goes in the maritimes, but two or three feet that stays for a hundred or so days. And cars get stuck in this snow, all the time. If you walk outside in the winter, as I did a lot as a young man, you'll find yourself on the curb next to a stuck car about once a week.
The first winter that Tamara was here, an American whose childhood was spent in Kentucky and adulthood was spent in Michigan, we were walking along a street in early winter and we came across such a person; and without hesitation, I rushed off the sidewalk, threw my sole weight against the back of that stranger's car and, with lots of experience and the strength of a 38 y.o., tossed him out on the street and he went his way. No thank-you, no offer of a reward, just on his way. And Tamara was stunned. She'd never seen anything like it before. AND, being an American, she was pissed that he hadn't rolled down his window to thank me.
But that's not how it works in Canada. We don't do it for the reward. We don't do it for the human connection or the sense of self-gratification. We do it because there's snow, and everybody does it. Because there's snow. This is incomprehensible to anyone who has not lived all their life in a snow-buried country. We do it because it needs doing. And when we're in trouble, we know someone will stop because someone always does. I could tell you other stories about the Canadification of Tamara.
Yes, I did the work with this girl. And yes, I was offended, angry, betrayed when she instigated the bullshit that ended my D&D campaign. But afterwards, when my mind was clear, I reviewed much of her behaviour over the months and realised, plainly, that I had let that situation become what it was because I was being patient, kind, compassionate, empathic. It was my fault. I should have cleaned her out of my game months before. Then I would still have a game. And she could go dump her toxic shit on someone else's party.
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