Editorial note: This article was originally published in the Knutepunkt 2025 book Anatomy of Larp Thoughts, a breathing corpus. It has been reprinted from there with the editors’ and authors’ permission. It has not been edited by Nordiclarp.org.
For Mike, may he rest well.
When I learned that a dear friend and mentor had passed away, I was at home, scrolling through social media. In that moment, a part of me that usually stays quiet—my other self, the character I embody in another world—rose to the surface, refusing to remain in the background. My grief seemed to split in two. As myself, I mourned the loss of a kind and dedicated man who had spent years creating a space where imagination thrived. As my character, I froze, feeling the absence of a mentor who had guided me, encouraged me, and helped shape the person I had become in that world. I did not know Mike for as long as others, but he always had a smile and an open ear for me. Our fantasy and real-life selves often shared a space at the same time; while he mentored my character as a ritualist and taught her how to command a circle, he also mentored me—ensuring that I would not be lost under the weight of others’ wants and needs.
Even now, as I write this, I can still feel myself trying to hold back tears. Two selves wrestle for control of my thoughts: one grounded in reality, and the other still standing at my mentor’s wake, deep in a forest, where a tree now grows in his honour. The UK larp community lost a very good man the day he passed; a man who pushed the boundaries of what could be in a game, yet even when he was busy, he always gave more than just a moment of his time for others.
It wasn’t the first time I had encountered death in this hobby, but it was the first time the loss felt so permanent. There would be no new character bearing his face with a different name, no scholar sipping tea near the College of Magic, no kind smile waiting at the Watchers’ table to open the circle for me. I miss his smile.
This death was quiet. Those of us who loved Mike gathered to mourn. His closest friends shared stories of how he had helped shape Curious Pastimes; a UK larp that has been running since 1996, and currently runs four mainline events a year set in its game world. We listened, sometimes laughing in remembrance, but mostly sitting silently on the late summer grass, holding hands, hugging, crying, and honouring a man who had given so much and asked for so little in return.
The memorial was meant to be entirely out of character. We came together, ostensibly as ourselves, to grieve him. Yet, looking around, I noticed most of us weren’t dressed as ourselves. We wore the clothes of our other selves—the characters Mike might also have met through his own alter ego. It was an unusual wake, held during a time when the event itself was in full swing, laughter echoing through the trees on the hillside. But in that space, we were caught in a strange in-between, neither fully in-character nor fully out of it. Two selves occupied one body, coexisting in shared grief.
I did not walk to the wake alone, and I am forever grateful for that. A friend—a brother, really, as he has been to my heart for many years now—walked from our faction’s camp with me. I am, by nature, an emotional person, but I—perhaps foolishly—hoped that I could witness this event with the strength of an unbending face. Instead, I found strength in those around me who also allowed themselves to feel this loss.
I remember my heart-brother taking my hand as I cried. In that instant of vulnerability, he was every version of himself I had known, and I was every version of myself he had known. New friends, old friends—the Claw and his cub, the brother and sister—all of them were present in the way only this community could allow. Letting him wrap his arm around me brought far more comfort than forcing a brave face or pushing any part of myself aside. He has long been a safe place, across so many lives.
The Emotional Complexity of Larp
Death is a frequent part of larp, but it is rarely permanent. In Al’Gaia, one of the factions in Curious Pastimes, the primary belief is that when someone dies, they return to the cycle—the eternal loop of life, death, and rebirth. While the specifics vary depending on the character’s beliefs, path, and connection to the deities of Al’Gaia, the core idea remains the same. For many, this belief offers comfort, something often reiterated by those in positions of authority during in-character funerals.
When someone in Al’Gaia dies, their body is carried back to camp and laid to rest in the glade where we set up our shrine at the start of the event. We gather, sometimes packed tightly into that sacred space, mourning the loss of one of our own. Yet, we are always reminded not to grieve but to rejoice—because the departed has returned to the cycle, and we will meet them again in another life.
I’ve always found it a complicated kind of comfort to hear those words.
I’ve attended many larp funerals. In both of the larp games I play—Curious Pastimes and Wilde Realms—I’ve taken part in these ceremonies as both an active and passive participant; someone who was directly affected by a loss and spoke on the individual whose spirit was now in the stars, and as a listener there to pay my respects to another that I may not have known as well. I’ve sung beneath the trees with others as fallen comrades “disappeared” (stepped out of play). I’ve stood with my herd, setting fields of the dead ablaze with violet fire. I’ve stood among the bodies, pleading with my in-character family to remember the fallen and continue the fight in their name.
Death in real life is not as dramatic, but it is just as deeply emotional. I cry the same tears, hold the same hands, and think the same thoughts in both of my lives. The key difference is that death in larp is not supposed to be permanent. You mourn a character as though they were a real person—because, in many ways, they were. They had a family, a personality, a story. You fought beside them, bled with them, and waited anxiously for their return after a battle. It feels almost cruel to experience loss so frequently in larp, knowing it’s temporary, yet still feeling the full weight of grief as if it were real.
This is, perhaps, one of the limitations of the magic circle—the invisible boundary that separates the world of play from the real world. (Huizinga 1938, 10) In larp, though we grieve our loved ones, we eventually see their face again in another body and continue living with them. In real life, death is final. My friend will not return.
This stark difference can intensify the phenomenon of “bleed”; a concept I am deeply familiar with, originally coined by Emily Care Boss in 2007 at Ropecon. In ‘Bleed: The Spillover Between Player and Character’, Sarah Bowman defines this concept by writing that “role-players sometimes experience moments where their real-life feelings, thoughts, relationships, and physical states spill over into their characters’, and vice versa.” (Bowman 2015) Bowman states that bleed can occur intentionally or unintentionally, and its effects range from catharsis to profound emotional devastation.
Bleed can be observed in three ways:
- Bleed-in: when the player’s emotions, thoughts, or experiences affect their character.
- Bleed-out: when the character’s emotions, thoughts, or experiences affect the player.
- Bleed feedback loop: when the boundary between player and character dissolves, especially in overwhelming emotional moments. (Bowman 2015)
What I experienced during Mike’s wake—and even when I first heard the news of his passing—was undeniably a bleed feedback loop. I could not tell you who I was as I sat listening to his dearest companions recount their memories. I entered the wake as myself, but my body was dressed as another, and the distinction between the two identities blurred. Or perhaps they didn’t blur at all. Perhaps they simply merged, becoming one.
I often say that playing at larp is a way to explore and embody facets of yourself—ideals, dreams, or fragments of your personality that you bring to life. In moments like these, the boundary between the player and the character collapses, creating an experience that is simultaneously beautiful and overwhelming.
The Fragility of the Magic Circle
The magic circle in larp serves as a boundary between fiction and reality, creating a space where players can safely embody characters and explore narratives. Central to maintaining this boundary is the concept of alibi; originally discussed by Markus Montola, Jaakko Stenros, and Annika Waern in 2009 in ‘Philosophies and strategies of pervasive larp design’, in Larp, the Universe and Everything, (Montola, Stenros, Waern 2009, 214). It is further deliberated by Bowman in her work on bleed from 2015, and again by Bowman and Hugaas in their 2021 article ‘Magic Is Real: How Role-Playing Can Transform Our Identities, Our Communities, and Our Lives’. Alibi acts as a psychological shield for players, allowing them to place blame for their actions directly on their character when engaging in situations that might otherwise feel emotionally or morally fraught. (Bowman 2015) (Bowman and Hugaas 2021)
But although alibi allows for emotional and mental distance between a player and their character, this tool of detachment is not infallible. The strength of alibi can vary depending on the story’s proximity to the player’s real life—playing a character who experiences grief, love, or loss that mirrors the player’s own can weaken the alibi, making it harder to maintain a sense of separation. In these cases, bleed—where the emotions, thoughts, and experiences of the player and character intertwine—becomes almost inevitable.
This fragility became glaringly apparent at Mike’s wake. I entered the space carrying the raw weight of personal grief but dressed as someone else entirely—a character who also mourned. My usual reliance on alibi, the assurance that my emotions were distinct from my character’s, crumbled. Instead, my two selves began to blur. My character’s performed grief became my own, and my own feelings deepened their reaction. It didn’t matter that my character hadn’t been “let out to play” yet, I could feel their emotions just as solidly as my own. They were just as real. The magic circle, meant to protect and isolate, instead amplified the collision between fiction and reality.
This breakdown of alibi wasn’t simply jarring—it was transformative. The safety net of the magic circle exposed me to an emotional intensity that might not have been as deeply felt outside of it. I wasn’t sure where I ended and my character began. I didn’t just mourn for Mike as myself—I mourned for him through my character. This merging of identities exemplifies how bleed can erode the structures we rely on in larp, creating profound, often overwhelming emotional experiences.
The Duality of Grief and Bleed
Grief within larp exists on a unique emotional spectrum, heightened by the phenomenon of bleed. Bleed, as players know, blurs the line between character and self—emotions from one spilling into the other. This becomes particularly pronounced during moments of grief, where the loss of a character or even a fellow player can create a shared sense of vulnerability among participants. We all felt it when we lost Mike; we weren’t alone in that field, listening to his dear friends talk about him. We were together in our grief, whether we knew each other personally or not, that moment connected us; Mike connected us. In ‘Why Larp Community Matters and How We Can Improve It’, Laura Wood highlights how larp evokes intense emotions and provides spaces for connection, amplifying empathy and deepening bonds. These spaces allow grief to feel communal and cathartic but can also make players more emotionally exposed. (Wood 2021)
Grieving alongside others in a larp setting can strengthen a sense of belonging, as moments of vulnerability bring participants closer. However, this same openness can exacerbate emotional overwhelm when grief spills over, especially if the loss feels personal on both in-character and real-world levels. Without adequate support, these heightened emotions may lead to unintended consequences, leaving players feeling isolated in their dual mourning.
Promoting Safety and Awareness
Mike ensured that I knew I was more than a ritualist with powers for others to use. He spoke to me about the importance of saying “no”, and helped me manage my anxiety about being in such a prominent position. Because of Mike, I learned to be powerful and powerless; my job was to lead the players in the circle, but the outcome of a ritual was not up to me. He was my touchstone in the Watcher’s box; someone I could count on to be fair, but to encourage me with positive criticism. He was, in my opinion, the best Watcher that Curious Pastimes had. He looked beyond the play and saw the player, and I think that is something that is missing now.
We may have lost Mike, but we haven’t lost his beliefs or his words. I can do my best to advocate for myself at larp and encourage others to do the same. Together, we can create an element of larp culture that is dedicated to wellbeing, we can manage the challenges of subjects like grief and bleed, we can understand that safety—physical, emotional, and mental—must become a cornerstone of our games. Wood’s call to normalise safety tools like safe words and exit mechanics are just the start. (Wood 2021) These tools allow players to protect themselves without disrupting the experience for others, making it easier to process complex emotions such as grief. Educating both organisers and players about these tools—and creating environments where their use is encouraged and introduced to players before a game and during pre-game briefings—can help safeguard everyone’s emotional well-being.
Self-awareness is crucial when engaging with grief in larp. Players should understand their emotional limits and approach topics thoughtfully, recognising that their fellow participants may be carrying their own burdens. Community-wide education on managing grief and bleed—through workshops, post-game discussions, or even casual conversations—can create a culture of care and responsibility.
By weaving empathy, safety, and self-awareness into the fabric of larp, participants can transform grief from an overwhelming experience to an opportunity for collective healing and deeper connection. As Wood suggests, this is the magic of community: learning to protect each other’s vulnerability while embracing the shared humanity that grief uniquely reveals. (Wood 2021) I can’t help but feel that Mike would share the same sentiment.
Bibliography
Huizinga, Johan. 1938. Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture. Angelico Press. 10.
Bowman, Sarah Lynne. 2015. “Bleed: The Spillover Between Player and Character.” Nordic Larp. https://nordiclarp.org/2015/03/02/bleed-the-spillover-between-player-and-character/.
Montola, Markus, Jaakko Stenros, and Annika Waern. 2009. “Philosophies and Strategies of Pervasive Larp Design.” In Holter, Matthijs, Fatland, Eirik & Tømte, Even: Larp, the Universe and Everything. The book for Knutepunkt 2009. Knutepunkt. p214.
Bowman, Sarah Lynne, and Hugaas, Kjell Hedgard. 2021. “Magic Is Real: How Role-Playing Can Transform Our Identities, Our Communities, and Our Lives.” Nordic Larp. https://nordiclarp.org/2021/03/09/magic-is-real-how-role-playing-can-transform-our-identities-our-communities-and-our-lives/.
Wood, Laura. 2021. “Why LARP Community Matters and How We Can Improve It.” Nordic Larp. https://nordiclarp.org/2021/03/22/why-larp-community-matters-and-how-we-can-improve-it/.
This article is republished from the Knutepunkt 2025 book. Please cite it as:
Greenwood, Lyssa. 2025. “Grief in Larp: Bleeding Through Two Lives.” In Anatomy of Larp Thoughts, a breathing corpus: Knutepunkt Conference 2025. Oslo. Fantasiforbundet.
Cover image: Photo by Wouter from Pixabay
