The other night I had a dream.

I was in what I'd guess you call a large convention hall. It was furnished with numerous long tables with folding chairs, but the room was mostly empty. I found myself at a table with a handful of others (friends, acquiantances, strangers, I'm not really sure). We were playing a game.

It was D&D.

As we played, I took in my surroundings. With so few people around, it didn't take long for me to spot the gentleman sitting at a table nearby. It was the Geek, the Legend, the one-and-only... Wil Wheaton. If I was surprised to see him there, it didn't register. Perhaps this was a Con or the kind of place one expects to find geek culture icons mixing with the unwashed masses. I studied him for a moment. He was with someone, a suit perhaps. Wil seemed busy. Were they discussing a new book deal? Was he negotiating to play his own Grandfather in Star Trek? Was he finally getting around to suing Rob Reiner for the leeches in Stand By Me?

Who knows. That wasn't important. What's important was that it was WIL FUCKING WHEATON.

Our game wasn't going well. I can't summon the details at this moment, but I knew we needed some help. And WFW was sitting right there! He didn't seem to be having a great time either; a look of boredom and frustration crossed his face. But I knew a way to save us both.

I knew his secret.

I stood, grabbing a die from the tabletop and quickly hiding it in my closed fist. I walked down the row of tables, moving parallel to Mr. Wheaton and his cohort. I tried to walk casual--but not make it look like I was walking casual--as I strode down the aisle. Passing by Wil, I deftly placed a red D20 before him, the twenty facing up, and continued on my way, like a geek informent secretly passing a note to his handler.

He looked down at it.

It was an invitation. One I knew he couldn't ignore.

You see, in this made up dream world, I knew Wil Wheaton's secret: He must obey the call of the D20. If one is placed before him, twenty facing up, he is obligated to pick it up and join your game. He is not bound by some group or mystic force, or Wookiee Life Debt to Gary Gygax, just an unwritten Gamer's Code and Geek's Honor. It is a duty he performs willingly, and with great pleasure. It was my opportunity to game with a geek hero, and hopefully his chance to dodge whatever mundane facts-of-life task had brought him here.

Or, at least so I thought.

What came next was an anticlimax of epic proportions, though one I've come to expect in the kinds of dreams I have (Really, brain, you couldn't throw in some bikini girls and a can of Cool Whip? Is that too much to ask?) He looked down at the die, and then back at me as I walked away. I expected to return to my seat and see him getting up, explaining to the suit his geis, and brandishing a Player's Handbook seemingly from nowhere. But as I rounded the corner he levelled his gaze at me. I had a smug smile on my face that slowly faded to a look of embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he explained. He looked annoyed. Not necessarily at me, just at the situation. "I'm really busy, I don't have time for this."

And that, well, was it. I returned to my table, dejected, and WFW went on with whatever he was doing that day. It was a fantasy bitch-slap. It was the dream equivalent of buying an ice cream cone only to have it plop on the ground the second you go to lick it. It was like dreaming that you were finally going to score with that girl you've been crushing on for years only to look down and find you no longer have a penis.

I'm not sure but as I woke up I swear I heard the "sad trombone" sound.

But it was a dream, so whatever.

Dreams can reveal some fascinating insights, though. I found these two points to be particularly intriguing:

1. Since dreaming is just a product of the imagination, the brain can make up any kind of crazy shit it wants. What's more, it doesn't have to rely on established facts or logic. For instance, in this dream, I just knew that if I laid a D20 before Wil (Fucking) Wheaton, he would be compelled to act. This isn't something he joked about in the real world or something I read in his blog or on Twitter, my brain just decided to establish it as a fact. I have had other dreams where in them I've "remembered" something that wasn't true or didn't ever happen. But since the logic part of your brain is mostly shut off when you sleep, my imagination was free to make up fake memories (or, even simpler, just the sensation of remembering). You can't say that's not fascinating. And maybe a little scary.

2. I love the idea of Whil Wheaton having a secret D&D compulsion. I think this is brilliant. It's the kind of thing you'd see in a Penny Arcade comic. I wish my brain was that creative when I'm awake (stupid brain, I'm going to stab you with a cuetip!) It's just such a beautiful idea: you present him with a D20 and he has to play. It's like a gaming version of Adrian Monk. If anyone reading this has a chance to test this at a convention, let me know. Just don't abuse it, he's got books to write and stuff.

I can only assume that this incident is the beggining of a pattern for me. Next time I'm sure I'll dream of Patrick Stewart refusing to perform Dickens with me on stage.

Or maybe LeVar Burton telling me that "reading is for pussies", and that I don't have to take his word for it.