When I was a kid, I was a sucker for medieval stuff; I loved tromping around the woods with whatever I could reasonably pretend was a sword, and spent many a weekend at Higgins’ Armory (R.I.P.). Yet, perhaps strangely, I was never what you’d call a “fantasy kid.” Though I loved The Hobbit, I never felt compelled to take the full Tolkien dive, and I resisted the immersive temptations of Dungeons and Dragons. The issue, I think, is that I never particularly cared for the lore of high fantasy so much as the aesthetic. I loved Robin Hood and Merlin and knights and (especially) monsters, but I primarily thought of them as a sandbox in which to play. When it came to the heavy mythology nitty-gritty that tends to make the hardcore nerds salivate, it kind of started to feel like homework.