How Canada’s live action roleplaying communities grew from early fantasy experiments and improvised theatre to permanent medieval villages, interconnected supernatural chronicles and fictional worlds stretching across a continent.
One Hobby, Many Beginnings — A History of Live Action Roleplaying
There are places where the boundary between imagination and reality does not disappear so much as become negotiable.
A forest clearing in Ontario can become the meeting place of rival kingdoms. An ordinary room in Ottawa can serve as the court of an ancient vampire. On Vancouver Island, a stretch of woodland can acquire a fictional history that its inhabitants continue to remember long after the costumes have been packed away.
And in Québec, at Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, something rather extraordinary has happened.
A medieval fantasy village exists.
Not merely a temporary collection of tents. Not a film set waiting for actors to arrive. Buildings, streets, gathering places and neighbourhoods have been created over decades by people committed to inhabiting an imaginary society.
The place is called the Duché de Bicolline.
Its inhabitants belong to guilds, develop rivalries, negotiate alliances and participate in a fictional political and economic world. The landscape has become a physical expression of stories accumulated over time.
Yet beginning the history of Canadian live action roleplaying with Bicolline would be a mistake.
By the time its first Grande Bataille took place in 1996, people elsewhere in Canada were already organising fantasy roleplaying events, experimenting with participatory storytelling and developing different approaches to live play.
Québec was not the entire country.
Ontario was not simply an extension of American gaming.
And the smaller communities of western and Atlantic Canada did not exist merely to fill the spaces between more famous events.
Canada’s LARP history is the history of several overlapping creative traditions.
Some developed through outdoor adventure and physical combat. Others grew from tabletop roleplaying, university communities, improvisational theatre or supernatural political games.
They borrowed ideas, travelled across borders and sometimes disagreed about what a live roleplaying game should be.
Their stories are connected, but they do not all begin in the same place.
Mara studies a map of Canada spread across the table.
“That’s a very big country.”
“It is,” Stacy says.
Loki points at Québec.
“Is that where the castle is?”
“Not exactly a castle,” Elshara replies. “An entire fictional society.”
Sean raises an eyebrow.
“Does it have taxes?”
“Probably,” says Stacy.
Loki looks horrified.
“Even here?”
Kelvin has already begun checking the distances.
“We’re going to need provisions.”
And so our journey begins.
A history without a single birthplace
The first difficulty in writing a Canadian history of LARP is identifying where the story truly begins.
There are references to university assassination games, fantasy experiments, tabletop gaming societies and interactive theatre during the late 1970s and 1980s.
These activities are plausible ancestors of Canadian live roleplaying.
But plausibility is not documentation.
The surviving evidence does not yet establish a particular university event as Canada’s first LARP.
Nor is every assassination tournament automatically a roleplaying game.
A physical game may involve costumes, competition or imaginative circumstances without asking participants to sustain fictional identities.
A theatrical performance can rely upon improvisation while remaining primarily directed towards an external audience.
Historical reenactment can recreate a period without introducing the fictional character decisions central to many LARPs.
These activities share techniques.
They should not be collapsed into one category merely to construct an attractive origin story.
For Canada, we possess firmer documentation from the early 1990s onwards.
That does not mean nothing happened earlier.
It means the earlier history still requires contemporary programmes, club records, photographs, rulebooks or testimony capable of establishing what actually took place.
A serious history must allow its first chapter to contain unanswered questions.
After all, the absence of a surviving record is not proof that an adventure never happened.
Two languages, several traditions
The development of Canadian LARP is sometimes presented as a division between English-speaking combat games and French-speaking immersive fantasy.
That distinction is useful as a starting point, but inadequate as a complete explanation.
In Québec, jeu de rôle grandeur nature, commonly abbreviated GN, developed into an extensive tradition of outdoor fantasy events, dedicated venues and long-term fictional communities.
English-language Canadian communities included fantasy live combat, science-fiction experimentation, theatrical scenarios and World of Darkness chronicles.
Both linguistic environments contained considerable internal diversity.
Québec produced games concerned with horror, relationships and narrative rather than only large battles.
English-speaking groups developed persistent fictional worlds, elaborate social institutions and strong immersive cultures of their own.
The border between these traditions was porous.
Players travelled. International rulebooks circulated. Organisers learned from other events.
But shared influences do not imply identical histories.
The geographical problem was equally significant.
A participant in Montréal might be able to travel to a rural Québec event in a few hours.
Someone living in Winnipeg, Halifax or Victoria faced entirely different distances when considering the country’s major gatherings.
Canada’s size encouraged regional approaches to organising games.
It also made national collaboration an achievement rather than an automatic feature of the hobby.
1990: Martin Bergeron and L’Atelier du loisir
One of the strongest early historical reference points comes from Québec.
In a 2022 publication on immersive leisure, Eric Paul Parent identifies the foundation of L’Atelier du loisir in 1990 by Martin Bergeron.
The publication describes the organisation as the first grouping of Québec’s grandeur nature community.
This is an important statement, although its precise meaning deserves care.
It identifies an early formal organisation.
It does not prove that nobody in Québec had played outdoor fantasy games before 1990.
Nor does it establish that all later Québec LARPs descended directly from Bergeron’s initiative.
What it demonstrates is that GN had reached a stage where people were creating recognisable organisations around the activity.
A hobby sustained by informal gatherings could begin acquiring more durable structures.
Organisers needed to bring participants together, establish expectations and coordinate the practical requirements of play.
Those requirements might involve space, equipment, scheduling and the increasingly complex question of safety.
L’Atelier du loisir belongs to that transition.
Some later accounts associate the organisation with the municipality of Béthanie.
However, detailed claims about its earliest land arrangements, weapon workshops or specific encounters with local authorities still require direct evidence.
These are excellent subjects for an eyewitness interview.
They are not details we should invent in the meantime.
The historically important question is larger than the founding date.
How did early Québec players move from individual experiments towards organised, repeatable experiences?
Martin Bergeron represents one of the clearest surviving points from which that story can be investigated.
The attraction of a permanent world
For an outdoor fantasy LARP, a venue can be much more than a practical necessity.
A forest offers distance from modern surroundings.
A field allows participants to gather, march or fight.
A building provides a place to negotiate, trade, eat or conduct ceremonies within the fiction.
But a temporary setting must be reconstructed whenever the players return.
A permanent site changes the relationship between participants and their imaginary world.
Buildings remain between events.
A tavern can become a familiar meeting place.
Roads connect locations with accumulated stories.
A structure built by one group may become an object of pride, jealousy or rivalry for another.
The physical environment starts carrying its own history.
This possibility became one of the defining achievements of Québec’s larger GN communities.
It also created considerable responsibilities.
Land and buildings need maintenance.
Events require sanitation, emergency procedures, insurance and practical administration.
A medieval-looking settlement remains a modern organisation with real obligations.
Its fictional institutions may be fascinating.
Its actual financial and legal structures determine whether anyone can return next season.
This tension between imagination and infrastructure appears repeatedly in Canadian LARP history.
Nowhere is it more visible than at Bicolline.
1994–1996: the beginnings of Bicolline
According to the Duché de Bicolline’s own historical account, the project began in 1994.
Its founders include Olivier Renard and Basia Kornaga, whose work is recognised in the organisation’s current leadership history.
The first Grande Bataille took place in 1996.
These dates are supported both by the organisation’s records and by subsequent contemporary reporting.
The distinction between 1994 and 1996 is useful.
A project can exist before its first major public event.
There is a period in which a creative idea becomes an organisation, develops its setting and attracts the people required to make its ambitions practical.
Bicolline’s early development belongs to that process.
What began with a relatively small community eventually grew into a major international gathering.
The Grande Bataille expanded from a shorter event into a week-long immersive experience.
The site developed an extensive village of permanent structures.
More importantly, it accumulated a continuing fictional society.
Visitors did not simply arrive to watch a medieval spectacle.
They could participate within a world that already possessed relationships, organisations and history.
The people who created that world remained essential to its development.
Bicolline’s own account emphasises the contributions of volunteers, organisers and participants across the decades.
The familiar historical temptation is to attribute the whole achievement to two or three names.
The better approach is to recognise the founders while also examining the community whose work made continued development possible.
Bicolline: when the buildings belong to the story
The village of Bicolline presents an unusual relationship between physical and fictional ownership.
Guilds and groups establish places within the settlement.
Buildings become recognisable features of the environment.
A visitor encounters streets and structures that exist outside the immediate schedule of a particular scenario.
This continuity changes the experience of roleplaying.
Imagine arriving at a familiar meeting place after several months.
The building remains.
But its meaning may have changed.
A faction has gained influence.
An agreement has collapsed.
Someone who occupied an important position last season is no longer there.
The physical world provides continuity while the fictional world changes.
That is a powerful combination.
It can create the feeling that events are part of a history rather than isolated episodes.
Of course, permanent buildings do not automatically produce meaningful player decisions.
A visually impressive village can still host a rigidly scripted experience.
A relatively empty field can support extraordinary roleplaying if participants possess genuine influence over events.
The real achievement lies in the relationship between space, institutions and player action.
Bicolline offers an unusually visible example of that relationship.
Its surroundings help participants believe that the world exists.
Its continuing game provides reasons for them to care what happens there.
Stacy studies photographs of the village.
“They’ve actually built all this?”
“Over many years,” Elshara answers.
Kelvin examines a fortified entrance.
“That’s a serious amount of work.”
Sean nods appreciatively.
“Somebody has been organising volunteers.”
Mara looks at the buildings.
“Do people remember who built each one?”
“That,” says Stacy, “would be an excellent question for the people who were there.”
Loki has reached an entirely different conclusion.
“I want a house.”
“Who’s going to build it?”
Loki looks at Kelvin.
Kelvin closes his eyes.
“No.”
Guilds, politics and the world between battles
One of Bicolline’s distinctive features is the relationship between physical events and a broader fictional political and economic system.
Players may belong to guilds and other organisations.
Those institutions possess relationships extending beyond the immediate battlefield.
Military encounters form only one part of the fictional experience.
Trade, influence, negotiation and longer-term strategic decisions can also matter.
This creates opportunities for different kinds of participation.
A player interested in combat may find satisfaction on the battlefield.
Someone fascinated by diplomacy can invest in alliances.
Others may concentrate on community life, craftsmanship or the development of their guild’s identity.
Such a structure also generates tension.
How much influence should successful political organisation confer?
Can economic power become too important?
What happens when an experienced group possesses advantages unavailable to newcomers?
How should game administration respond when the fictional ambitions of participants conflict?
These questions are not unique to Bicolline.
They arise in persistent LARPs around the world.
The historical significance of Bicolline is that the community has been confronting them at considerable scale over many years.
Its continuing existence does not prove that every problem has been solved.
It does demonstrate that such systems can support a long-lived world.
A real historical interview with founding organisers could illuminate how these mechanisms developed, what was deliberately planned and what emerged through player behaviour.
The danger of measuring everything in thousands
Bicolline’s growth attracts attention because of its scale.
An article published by L’Éclaireur Progrès in August 2015 described more than 2,500 participants and a site containing over 190 buildings at that time.
These are historically situated figures.
They should not be presented as permanent measurements.
Buildings are added or altered.
Attendance changes.
Organisational structures develop.
Likewise, a June 2022 report discussed expectations of more than 5,000 participants for the returning Grande Bataille.
An expected attendance figure is not the same as a verified final count.
The important historical development is not the largest number that can be placed in a headline.
It is that a community sustained the activity, infrastructure and relationships required to make large-scale immersion possible.
That achievement cannot be understood entirely through attendance statistics.
A participant who has attended for fifteen years may experience the same gathering quite differently from somebody arriving for the first time.
The fictional world contains memories, obligations and histories unavailable to an outsider.
The event’s size is visible.
Its accumulated meaning is harder to photograph.
Ontario: a different surviving paper trail
While Québec’s organisational history offers important landmarks around 1990, Ontario’s early documentation includes a remarkable official record.
In March 1995, three Toronto applicants filed a Canadian trademark application for NERO.
Their names were Quentin Salzer, Jeremy Day and Paul Gyori.
The filing described the design and operation of interactive high-fantasy events explicitly identified as live action roleplaying.
The services included venues, fictional scenarios, necessary equipment and information circulated to members.
This is exceptionally useful evidence.
It is a contemporary legal record naming organisers and describing the activity in terms that leave little doubt about its relationship to LARP.
The application also claimed that the mark had been used in Canada since June 1992.
That claim needs careful handling.
The existence of the 1995 application is firmly documented.
The June 1992 date is a historical assertion by the applicants within that record, not independent proof of the exact date of the first Canadian NERO game.
The distinction does not make the document less important.
It tells us that by 1995 a Toronto partnership was formally identifying and protecting an enterprise involving live fantasy roleplaying.
And it provides a concrete direction for further research into the early 1990s.
The NERO filing and what it actually proves
The Canadian Intellectual Property Office identifies the NERO application as No. 0775000, filed on 6 March 1995.
The record documents subsequent examination, approval and an opposition proceeding during 1996.
The application was ultimately abandoned.
We should not turn that administrative history into a sensational story of international conflict without examining the relevant correspondence and decisions.
A trademark opposition does not, by itself, explain the personal relationships or motivations of everyone involved.
Nor does this document establish that NERO was the first live action roleplaying system played in Canada.
It establishes something narrower and more secure.
By the middle of the decade, a Toronto-based group had taken identifiable steps to organise and describe live fantasy roleplaying as a service.
For a field whose earliest activities often survive only through scattered personal recollections, that is significant.
It offers three names, an official date and a description of the activity.
It also suggests possible archival leads: early newsletters, member records, programmes and rulebooks.
We hope future research may reveal what the applicants actually organised, how their events were received and how their work connected with the growing North American LARP scene.
Until then, the filing should remain a documented beginning, not an invented definitive origin.
From tabletop characters to live fantasy
The growth of fantasy LARP in English-speaking Canada can be understood against the wider development of tabletop roleplaying and North American live-combat traditions.
Tabletop games had already taught participants to imagine characters with distinct skills, loyalties and ambitions.
Live play offered a different experience.
Instead of describing a swordfight, participants could represent it physically.
Rather than announcing that a character entered a room, they could walk into one.
But translating a tabletop system into a physical environment creates design problems.
A numerical character statistic does not automatically correspond to physical ability.
A player may be less athletic than the character they portray.
A combatant needs rules that protect real bodies while still producing fictional stakes.
An organiser must decide how to represent magic, injuries and death.
Different games reach different solutions.
Some use padded weapons and numerical calls.
Others favour direct physical hits with minimal abstraction.
Some represent conflicts through gestures, cards or agreed dramatic procedures.
These approaches are not interchangeable.
They embody different assumptions about fairness, immersion and the roles of players.
Ontario’s development therefore belongs to a wider history of practical design decisions, not merely the importation of fantasy imagery.
Peterborough: an experiment at the boundary of theatre and LARP
Another important part of Canada’s story unfolded in a very different environment.
In the early 1990s, a small theatre in Peterborough, Ontario hosted an improvised science-fiction serial called Biosphere 2013.
The original creative leadership included Frederik Graver, the director, and Kate Story, the creative director.
The production took place within the wider culture of the Union Theatre.
Its methods were later analysed by participant and game designer Moyra Turkington in a detailed 2015 article for Analog Game Studies.
This account is a particularly valuable source because it explains the actual creative process.
The production was set in a dystopian near future of environmental crisis and corporate control.
Its background material established a shared fictional situation.
Performers developed characters through collaborative exercises and rehearsals.
The show unfolded in weekly instalments, with scenes prepared through a mixture of planning and improvisation.
Characters acquired relationships.
Their decisions contributed to continuing storylines.
In many respects, the process resembles forms of live roleplaying.
Yet the crucial difference was the presence of an audience.
Biosphere 2013 was not simply an early LARP
It would be tempting to describe Biosphere 2013 as a forgotten Canadian LARP in which audience members became inhabitants of a collapsing fictional world.
That is not what the strongest source says.
Turkington explicitly distinguishes the experience of performers from that of the paying audience.
The production was created to be watched.
The audience could respond, cheer, heckle and influence the performers’ presentation.
But its members were not ordinarily assigned persistent player characters who participated on the same terms as the cast.
The distinction matters.
In a LARP, the central purpose is commonly the experience of the participants.
In Biosphere 2013, performers were also responsible for creating a satisfying dramatic product for spectators.
Turkington’s analysis explores how that external audience changes the relationship between individual creative agency and the overall production.
A performer might propose an idea in rehearsal.
The directors could decide whether that idea belonged in the next episode.
The performer’s freedom to invent did not guarantee control over what reached the audience.
This provides an illuminating comparison with LARP design.
But comparison should not become retrospective misclassification.
Biosphere 2013 is historically important because it helps us understand the neighbouring creative territory from which modern LARP designers can learn.
It does not need to be renamed to deserve a place in the story.
Who owns a fictional decision?
The distinction between performance and participatory play raises a question that reaches far beyond Peterborough.
What does it mean for a participant to possess agency?
Is agency the ability to make a choice?
Or must that choice be capable of affecting what happens afterwards?
An actor may be allowed to improvise many possibilities during rehearsal.
If none can enter the final performance without the director’s approval, the actor’s influence has a particular boundary.
A LARP player may be offered several routes through a scenario.
If every route leads inevitably to the same predetermined outcome, the apparent freedom can be narrower than it first seems.
Neither arrangement is inherently wrong.
Theatre and LARP can serve different creative purposes.
Problems arise when a design promises one kind of agency while delivering another.
Turkington’s work is valuable because it makes these distinctions visible.
It asks us to look at who possesses authority over the fiction, whose experience the production is designed to serve and how individual contributions become part of a shared story.
Those questions belong at the heart of contemporary roleplaying design.
And Canadian experimental theatre offers a useful historical lens through which to examine them.
Elshara considers the difference.
“So a performer can invent something that the director decides not to use.”
“Yes,” Stacy says.
“But a player should know what kind of decisions the game allows?”
“Exactly.”
Loki looks thoughtful.
“What if my character opens the forbidden door?”
Sean sighs.
“That depends on whether the world permits you to make the mistake.”
“And if it does?”
“Then we discover why the door was forbidden.”
Mara puts her face in her hands.
“He’s going to open it.”
The World of Darkness reaches Canadian cities
While fantasy groups experimented with physical adventure, another form of live roleplaying was spreading through North America.
Vampire: The Masquerade, published in 1991, offered an influential fictional setting centred on secret supernatural societies.
The subsequent Mind’s Eye Theatre rules provided procedures intended for live play.
These games did not require participants to construct a permanent medieval settlement.
A modern room could become a vampire court.
A rented hall might represent neutral ground for political negotiations.
A participant could portray a supernatural character whose alliances and rivalries continued from one gathering to another.
Political positions mattered.
Favours could be owed.
A public insult might have consequences at the next event.
The dramatic engine was often social rather than physical.
For Canadian organisers, such games offered a different approach to persistent fictional worlds.
They could operate within cities and connect participants separated by considerable distances.
Early Canadian Vampire chronicles also formed part of international fan networks.
The exact histories of individual domains need further investigation before their earliest dates can be confidently reconstructed.
What is clear is that urban supernatural roleplaying became another important strand of the country’s LARP culture.
2002: Canada at Midnight and the interconnected chronicle
Canada at Midnight, a national World of Darkness fan organisation, identifies 2002 as its founding year.
Its present-day activities include interconnected live roleplaying stories and online roleplaying opportunities.
This must be distinguished from the earlier history of Canadian Vampire games.
Those games existed within broader international communities before the present organisation’s founding.
Canada at Midnight did not invent Vampire LARP in Canada.
Its contribution lies in developing and maintaining a recognisable organisational framework for continuing play.
Such a network allows local groups to tell their own stories while participating in a larger fictional environment.
Characters may travel between domains.
Political relationships can extend beyond one city.
Local events may contribute to wider developments.
This creates a distinctive design challenge.
How much independence should a local storyteller possess?
What happens when a decision taken in one city affects characters elsewhere?
Who has authority to resolve disagreements?
And how can a fictional society remain coherent without making every participant wait for permission from a distant central administration?
These are the problems of collaborative world governance.
They are also remarkably close to questions faced by institutions outside fiction.
A shared world requires both local creativity and common agreements.
Why an interconnected Vampire game matters
A campaign becomes more complex when its participants do not all meet in one room.
Imagine a character in Ottawa negotiating with an ally in Montréal.
Their agreement may later affect events in Toronto.
The participants might only meet occasionally, but their fictional relationship continues.
Organisers must ensure that relevant information travels between groups.
Character capabilities need consistent interpretation.
Events may be recorded.
A decision can become part of a shared fictional history.
The resulting world resembles a distributed collaborative narrative.
No single participant possesses complete knowledge of everything happening inside it.
That limitation can be an advantage.
Secrecy, competing accounts and incomplete information are particularly appropriate to supernatural political drama.
But administrative problems can quickly become fictional problems.
An inconsistent ruling may undermine trust.
A poorly communicated change can make previous decisions meaningless.
A powerful character may affect others who never had a reasonable opportunity to respond.
Successful coordination therefore requires more than a common setting.
It requires dependable relationships among the real people responsible for the game.
Canada at Midnight’s organisational history belongs to this broader story of maintaining a world across geographical and administrative boundaries.
Underworld: dark fantasy in Ontario
Another influential Canadian tradition developed through Underworld LARP.
Its history is often summarised through a claimed founding date in the mid-1990s and its later expansion into an interconnected network.
However, the exact chronology of its earliest organisation needs more careful documentation.
A particularly valuable contemporary source survives from 1 April 2005.
An article in the Pickering News Advertiser describes live roleplaying in the Durham region of Ontario.
It identifies Edward Watt as a co-creator of Underworld.
That description is a stronger historical foundation than an unverified statement that a particular person single-handedly founded the entire enterprise in 1996.
The article also reveals something important about the community’s practical circumstances.
Players had enjoyed a local game on wooded land in Enniskillen.
Disagreements over management contributed to the loss of that local arrangement.
Participants were left travelling farther to continue their hobby.
This is not the kind of story normally featured in celebratory institutional timelines.
Yet it is precisely the sort of evidence historians need.
It shows how a fictional world can depend upon fragile relationships involving land, organisers and participants.
Breakfast in costume: a small historical moment
The 2005 newspaper article preserves a memorable recollection from Edward Watt.
He described a group of costumed participants stopping for breakfast in Durham.
Instead of encountering only hostility or confusion, they attracted genuine curiosity.
Watt contrasted that experience with the more suspicious reactions he remembered in Toronto.
The account is useful because it captures a mundane part of early LARP life.
Participants do not stop being visible when an event ends.
They travel, purchase food and encounter people who may have no idea what the hobby involves.
An elaborate costume that makes perfect sense in a fictional setting can attract very different reactions in an ordinary restaurant.
The event also reminds us that public perceptions of LARP were not always positive.
The newspaper describes players having to answer fears and misconceptions about the activity.
Some outsiders interpreted fantasy roleplaying through existing anxieties about unconventional hobbies, religion and youth culture.
The historical response was often practical.
Participants explained what they were doing.
They demonstrated that the activity involved creativity, friendship and organised play.
This small documented incident offers more genuine historical texture than an invented description of people manufacturing weapons in a basement.
It records an actual recollection by someone involved.
Underworld’s rules and the changing meaning of danger
Surviving editions of Underworld’s rules provide another route into its history.
Later versions document fantasy combat systems involving character statistics, weapon interactions, magic and specific procedures for resolving conflict.
The games combine physical representation with abstract mechanics.
An opponent’s apparent strength is not determined solely by how hard the person can swing a padded weapon.
Characters possess capabilities established through the rules.
Their actions are interpreted within a system shared by participants.
This creates a distinctive experience.
A player can physically participate in a fight while portraying abilities beyond their ordinary capacities.
Magical effects can be represented through agreed calls or other procedures.
Consequences may persist beyond the immediate encounter.
But we must distinguish the rules of different editions.
A surviving rulebook from 2009 or 2014 does not prove that exactly the same mechanics existed in the game’s earliest years.
Rules change.
Safety standards change.
Communities discover that particular abilities cause confusion or imbalance.
The historical development of these revisions would make an excellent subject for a written interview with early designers.
It would reveal not simply what Underworld became, but how its creators learned from play.
The interconnected world beyond Jericho
Underworld subsequently developed into a network of regional chapters sharing a fictional setting and related rules.
The concept is significant.
A participant can become attached to a character whose experiences continue across multiple events.
When chapters share common structures, travel between gaming communities can acquire fictional meaning.
A newcomer to another location may arrive not as an entirely unknown character but as someone carrying an established history.
That creates opportunities for collaboration.
It also demands extensive administration.
Organisers must communicate changes.
Character records need to remain dependable.
Rules must support more than one local interpretation.
The world’s fictional continuity depends upon agreements between real people.
The history of Underworld therefore demonstrates another way a continuing fictional world can grow.
It does not require a single permanent medieval village.
Its world can be distributed across multiple communities.
The central achievement is the system of relationships that allows those communities to recognise one another’s stories.
Vancouver Island: Medieval Chaos and Dagger Deep
Canada’s western history cannot be reduced to the spread of Ontario-based organisations.
On Vancouver Island, Medieval Chaos developed its own fantasy live-combat community around Dagger Deep.
Its public material describes a continuing fictional settlement situated near the borders of three imagined kingdoms.
The game combines physical combat with recurring storylines, characters and events.
The environment matters.
Woodland paths, buildings and established gathering places provide continuity between adventures.
Players return to locations that already possess significance within their shared fiction.
However, the earliest date in the organisation’s history deserves care.
Some later summaries give 1997 as its founding year.
That conflicts with Medieval Chaos’s own 2026 announcement celebrating its twenty-first year.
If the seasons were counted consecutively, the first would fall around 2006.
But that calculation does not establish an exact founding date.
The first meeting, first game, first full season and formal creation of an organisation can be different events.
Until older records or founder testimony clarify the chronology, the responsible description is that Medieval Chaos developed during the mid-2000s, according to its own season count.
The importance of regional independence
Medieval Chaos offers an important comparison with Bicolline and Underworld.
All three demonstrate ways of sustaining live fantasy adventures over time.
Yet their organisational structures, scales and methods of representing combat are not identical.
A permanent village can support a dense fictional society.
A regional combat community may establish its continuity through recurring sessions, familiar locations and relationships among players.
A network of chapters may connect characters across widely separated venues.
No one format is automatically more developed than another.
The significant question is whether each design creates the experience its participants expect.
For Vancouver Island, geographical separation from eastern Canadian centres also makes local history especially important.
We should not assume that every rule or custom originated in Québec or Ontario.
A western group may have developed a particular practice independently, borrowed from American neighbours or adapted ideas carried by travelling players.
Such influences require documentation.
They cannot be deduced merely from the location of the group.
The most useful next source would be testimony from the people who organised Medieval Chaos’s earliest seasons.
Their memories could establish the chronology and explain why the community chose its particular approach.
1998: another Québec beginning at Les Terres de Bélénos
Bicolline was never the only significant Québec GN world.
Les Terres de Bélénos, based at Sainte-Clotilde-de-Horton, developed a different major centre of immersive fantasy.
A newspaper report published in December 2020 identifies the organisation as having been founded in 1998.
That date is important because later summaries sometimes place its origins vaguely in the early 2000s.
The 2020 report also identifies Tomy Goulet as a co-owner and provides valuable contemporary information about the site’s operation.
Bélénos offered immersive fantasy activities involving substantial numbers of participants.
Events were supported by physical infrastructure requiring regular maintenance.
The site became an important setting for continuing stories.
As with Bicolline, the environment helped create a sense of place.
But we should not assume the two organisations offered identical experiences.
Different rules, community expectations and narrative priorities can make apparently similar outdoor events feel substantially different.
Bélénos deserves its own history rather than a short paragraph describing it as another version of Bicolline.
Bélénos: the cost of keeping imagination alive
The December 2020 newspaper report reveals an exceptionally valuable aspect of Bélénos’s history.
It describes the financial consequences of the Covid-19 pandemic.
The organisation’s normal event programme had been disrupted.
Income had fallen.
Yet its physical infrastructure still required upkeep.
The report discusses roughly sixty structures on a site of approximately sixty-four hectares.
These are figures reported for that particular period, not permanent measurements.
Tomy Goulet explained the difficulties created by rules and funding schemes that did not fit the organisation neatly.
Was a GN venue a tourism business?
A leisure organisation?
A festival organiser?
Different classifications could determine access to financial assistance.
Meanwhile, the buildings still had to be maintained.
This is a remarkable illustration of the practical difficulties behind immersive worlds.
A fictional village might contain magical creatures, rival rulers and dangerous mysteries.
Its real-world survival can depend upon legal categories, maintenance contracts and cash flow.
Such responsibilities often remain invisible to participants.
Yet they determine whether the village will still be there when the next adventure begins.
Sean reads the article.
“Sixty buildings to maintain.”
Kelvin nods.
“That’s a lot of repairs.”
“And a lot of money,” Stacy adds.
Loki is looking worried again.
“Do imaginary buildings really cost money?”
“Very real money,” says Elshara.
Sean folds the newspaper.
“Magic is expensive. Carpentry more so.”
Covid-19 and the vulnerability of permanent worlds
The pandemic exposed a fundamental vulnerability in physical live roleplaying.
An event can stop.
The costs associated with its venue may continue.
In 2020, Canadian organisers faced restrictions affecting travel, gatherings and physical contact.
Outdoor campaigns could not simply operate as normal.
Some groups experimented with remote activities.
The Bélénos report mentions work conducted through Minecraft to maintain engagement with participants.
But online interaction did not provide the revenue normally generated through physical events.
The example helps explain why a LARP cannot always be transferred into a digital format without losing important elements.
An online game may preserve fictional relationships.
It may allow players to negotiate, discuss and continue parts of a story.
But it does not automatically sustain the real buildings, land and employment arrangements supporting a permanent venue.
For organisations operating across multiple chapters, the difficulties were different but no less real.
Travel restrictions complicated gatherings.
Local rules differed.
Organisers had to decide how much of the fictional continuity could be maintained remotely.
The history of the pandemic belongs to the broader history of community resilience.
It also belongs to the economics of creative culture.
Bicolline’s return in 2022
The pandemic also interrupted Bicolline’s large annual gatherings.
A newspaper report dated 24 June 2022 announced that the Grande Bataille would return that August after two years of absence.
The report included statements from Olivier Renard about strong interest among participants.
This is a significant historical correction.
Some retrospective summaries describe 2023 as the first major post-pandemic return.
The contemporary 2022 coverage contradicts that chronology.
The article reported expectations of more than 5,000 participants.
Again, those were expectations at the time of publication, not an audited final attendance count.
The more important point is that the community had returned to organising major physical events.
After a period in which travel, gathering and contact were restricted, participants could once again enter the environment around which their fictional relationships had developed.
It is reasonable to infer that the return was important to many of them.
But we should not invent individual emotions, battlefield conversations or dramatic reunion scenes and present them as historical testimony.
Those experiences belong to the participants.
If we want to understand them, we should ask.
Atlantic Canada: beyond the familiar centres
The Atlantic provinces deserve a place in any national history of Canadian LARP.
Contemporary organisations and regional chapters demonstrate that fantasy and supernatural roleplaying have developed beyond Québec and Ontario.
Nova Scotia provides one of the clearest documented examples through Underworld: Tempest Grove.
The community operated in the Cape Breton area.
Its experiences reveal something that a simple list of games and rules cannot communicate.
The fictional setting depended upon a real physical space.
That space could be damaged.
And the people responsible for it could find themselves confronting events far removed from the imaginary dangers of their campaigns.
In May 2019, a report by Global News documented vandalism at the Tempest Grove site.
The damage included homophobic graffiti.
The event was distressing and significant enough to attract mainstream news coverage.
It belongs to the community’s history.
But it must be described carefully.
The available report does not justify inventing a complete overnight reconstruction or attributing specific unrecorded actions to volunteers.
The documented event is powerful enough without embellishment.
A fictional refuge in the real world
The vandalism at Tempest Grove illustrates the distinction between fictional conflict and real harm.
Within a game, characters may portray enemies.
They may threaten one another, wage wars or pursue morally troubling objectives.
Those actions occur within a shared fictional framework.
An attack on the real venue, accompanied by homophobic abuse, is something entirely different.
It affects actual people and property.
It cannot be understood through the game’s imaginary politics.
This distinction matters when discussing the social role of LARP.
For some participants, gaming communities provide friendship, belonging and opportunities for creative expression.
Those benefits should not be exaggerated into unsupported medical or therapeutic claims.
Nor can we assume that every participant experiences the community in the same way.
But the creation of welcoming spaces can be a meaningful achievement.
An organisation that establishes rules for respectful participation is making decisions about the real social environment in which play takes place.
This environment matters as much as the fictional world.
When it is threatened, the consequences are real.
Across the Prairies
The Canadian Prairies present another historical challenge.
Communities may be separated by considerable travelling distances.
A participant in Manitoba does not automatically have access to an event in Saskatchewan or Alberta.
Yet contemporary records identify a range of activities across the region, including fantasy combat organisations and interconnected campaigns.
Groups associated with Amtgard, Underworld and independent organisers have maintained different forms of play.
Some emphasise regular physical combat.
Others offer continuing fantasy narratives.
The existence of these communities is well worth documenting.
However, contemporary chapter directories cannot establish the exact beginnings of each regional tradition.
A game advertised in 2026 might be the successor to an older local organisation.
It might have developed from a different system.
Or it could represent a relatively recent community.
Those distinctions need local records.
The temptation to invent a broad cultural explanation is strong.
One might assume that long winters caused all Prairie groups to prefer indoor games or that geographical distance made their communities necessarily more cohesive.
Those claims sound plausible.
They are not historical facts without evidence.
Our responsibility is to identify actual organisers and sources rather than use geography as a substitute for research.
Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba: different needs, different worlds
One of the strengths of a national history is the opportunity to recognise communities that rarely appear in international LARP coverage.
Alberta has hosted fantasy-combat activities and games operating within wider rule systems.
Saskatchewan and Manitoba have supported local communities as well as events linked to larger organisations.
For many participants, their most meaningful LARP may not be a week-long international festival.
It may be a recurring gathering involving familiar people.
A game played regularly over several seasons can develop a remarkably rich fictional history.
The absence of grand buildings does not prevent characters from acquiring reputations.
A small group can sustain complicated relationships.
What matters is whether participants remember the consequences of earlier decisions and allow those consequences to influence later play.
Yet we should not pretend that every group follows that model.
Some players value competitive or athletic combat more than continuing narrative.
Others prefer self-contained scenarios.
A regional historical account should respect those differences.
The future task is to recover local histories from the people who created them, including groups that no longer exist.
British Columbia beyond Dagger Deep
Vancouver Island and the Lower Mainland occupy distinctive geographical positions within Canada.
They have connections with the wider Canadian LARP community, but also with gaming traditions across the nearby United States border.
Different approaches to live fantasy combat, urban supernatural roleplaying and convention scenarios have appeared in the region.
The documented history of Medieval Chaos provides an important example of sustained local organisation.
It should not stand in for all British Columbia LARP.
Vancouver, Victoria and smaller communities may possess earlier or parallel histories that have not yet entered accessible archives.
We should distinguish between what is documented and what remains a research lead.
The existence of a modern group cannot establish that it descended directly from an older game with a similar format.
Likewise, the presence of a particular American system nearby does not prove that a Canadian community adopted its rules.
These relationships require actual evidence of contact, shared participants or borrowed materials.
The history of western Canadian LARP deserves its own witnesses.
A national article can establish the questions.
It should not manufacture the answers.
What we cannot yet say about Canada’s North
The Yukon, Northwest Territories and Nunavut are frequently overlooked in discussions of Canadian cultural history.
It would be equally misleading to fill that gap with invented examples.
The Gemini research dossier suggests that remote northern communities hosted occasional chamber games and convention roleplaying.
It does not provide sufficient contemporary evidence to identify specific events confidently.
Nor does Canada’s climate justify claiming that outdoor LARP was impossible in those territories.
Northern communities undertake a wide variety of outdoor activities.
The existence or absence of particular LARP traditions must be established through sources, not generalisations about weather.
For now, the responsible conclusion is simple.
The published record available to this project remains incomplete.
We welcome programmes, personal recollections, photographs and other evidence concerning roleplaying activities in these regions.
They deserve an opportunity to enter the history without being transformed into convenient assumptions.
The problem with the word “first”
The word first appears constantly in histories of creative hobbies.
The first event.
The first group.
The first convention.
The first permanent village.
The first national network.
Such labels are attractive because they offer clear milestones.
But they can also obscure complicated histories.
A formal organisation may have been established years after its participants began playing together.
A game might change its name while retaining the same community.
A convention could introduce a new format without inventing it.
A permanent venue might have existed informally before the organisation operating there was registered.
The distinction between a foundation date and the beginning of an activity is particularly important in Canada.
Martin Bergeron’s 1990 organisation is an important Québec landmark.
The NERO trademark filing is a valuable Ontario record.
Bicolline’s 1994 beginnings and 1996 Grande Bataille are well documented.
None should be declared the absolute beginning of Canadian LARP without examining the evidence from other communities and earlier periods.
A responsible history can identify milestones without turning them into exclusive claims.
Different worlds, different kinds of agency
Canada’s LARP traditions offer an opportunity to compare how games structure participation.
A political Vampire chronicle may give characters influence through information, favours and social positions.
A fantasy-combat game may place greater emphasis upon physical encounters and the tactical use of character abilities.
A permanent GN village can support a complex combination of everyday social life, political institutions, battles and continuing economic relationships.
A theatrical experiment may allow participants considerable creative freedom while retaining strong directorial control over what is presented.
These structures create different forms of agency.
A player can be free to choose actions while remaining constrained by the fictional setting.
They may influence their own character’s fate without determining the wider world’s history.
Or they may belong to a faction capable of changing the direction of the campaign.
A meaningful choice need not produce the outcome the player desires.
In fact, the possibility of failure can make choices more significant.
But the game must be coherent about how consequences emerge.
The surviving Canadian examples illustrate several methods for achieving that coherence.
They also remind us that there is no universal formula.
The organisation behind the fiction
One of the most revealing themes in Canadian LARP history is the relationship between imaginative freedom and institutional responsibility.
Large events require administration.
Small games still need dependable organisers.
A permanent village must survive between sessions.
A national network has to coordinate information.
An outdoor combat group must establish safety expectations.
A theatrical scenario needs to communicate the nature of participation.
These responsibilities are not glamorous.
They rarely appear in promotional photographs.
But they provide the foundation upon which imaginative freedom becomes possible.
Bélénos’s financial difficulties during the pandemic show how fragile that foundation can be.
The 2005 Underworld reporting illustrates how organisational disagreements can affect an entire local gaming community.
Bicolline’s continuing development demonstrates the scale of collective work required to support a permanent immersive site.
Canada at Midnight shows how fictional continuity can depend upon coordination across real geographical boundaries.
The common feature is not a particular rules system.
It is the labour of maintaining relationships.
A fictional world may be imaginary.
The institution supporting it is not.
Indigenous peoples and the limits of comparison
Any history of a Canadian cultural activity must take the presence and histories of First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples seriously.
However, modern recreational live action roleplaying should not be equated with Indigenous ceremonies, storytelling practices or cultural traditions.
Those practices possess their own purposes, histories and meanings.
Calling them early forms of LARP would impose an unrelated modern category upon them.
The Gemini dossier also makes broad claims about cultural appropriation, historical exclusion and recent policy reforms by Canadian gaming organisations.
Some of these issues are legitimate subjects for further investigation.
But a general source about Indigenous representation does not prove that a particular LARP organisation adopted a particular rule.
And a source mentioning the acronym LARP may not concern live action roleplaying at all.
One cited document in the research, for example, concerns Alberta’s Lower Athabasca Regional Plan.
It is a land-use planning document.
It is not evidence about recreational roleplaying.
That error illustrates why source verification matters.
A responsible future account of Indigenous participation in Canadian LARP should prioritise the work and testimony of Indigenous participants themselves.
Until such evidence is established, their experiences should not be invented.
Respect begins with allowing people to describe their own histories.
2026: the worlds continue
Canadian LARP did not end with the major events of the 1990s and 2000s.
In 2026, Bicolline continued its established programme of immersive fantasy activities.
Medieval Chaos advertised its twenty-first year of operations.
Canada at Midnight announced Widening Gyre, a new Vampire: The Masquerade chronicle written by Corrigan E. Cassidy and Vance Brews, with its beginning scheduled for an August convention in Ottawa.
These contemporary records show continued creative activity.
They also reveal different ways of sustaining a fictional community.
Bicolline relies upon a dedicated physical environment and the culture surrounding it.
Medieval Chaos maintains recurring adventures within a regional gaming community.
Canada at Midnight coordinates stories across multiple domains.
Each approach places different demands upon organisers.
Each provides participants with different opportunities.
None should be treated as the inevitable final stage of LARP’s development.
The history remains open.
New groups begin.
Older organisations change.
Rules are revised.
Participants bring ideas from other games and other countries.
And somewhere, perhaps in a student club or an improvised gathering that has left little public documentation, someone may already be experimenting with the next distinctive form of Canadian live roleplaying.
The histories that remain to be recovered
There are still important gaps in the Canadian record.
We do not yet possess a securely documented first Canadian LARP.
The precise origins of some early Québec and Ontario organisations remain unclear.
The early rules and leadership of Underworld require further archival confirmation.
The exact beginnings of Medieval Chaos need clarification from older records or participants.
Regional histories in the Prairies, Atlantic provinces and the North remain incomplete.
A full account of the relationship between francophone and anglophone communities would benefit from correspondence, convention records and firsthand interviews.
These are not reasons to avoid writing the history.
They are reasons to write it carefully.
Historical research improves when claims can be checked.
A participant may remember an event differently from another participant.
A rulebook may contradict an anniversary timeline.
A contemporary newspaper can establish details that later recollections have lost.
And sometimes a single surviving administrative document can transform our understanding of a period.
The Toronto NERO application is an excellent example.
It introduces organisers and a historical claim absent from many familiar summaries.
A forgotten piece of paperwork can become the beginning of an entirely new research question.
The people behind the dates
Mythveil Chronicles has begun inviting historical participants and organisers to contribute their own perspectives to this series.
Our enquiries include Martin Bergeron on Québec’s early GN movement, Olivier Renard and Basia Kornaga through the existing Bicolline contact, Tomy Goulet on Les Terres de Bélénos, Moyra Turkington and Kate Story on the Peterborough theatre tradition, and Edward Watt or another appropriate early organiser through Underworld’s public contact channel.
We are also interested in hearing from organisers associated with Medieval Chaos and the early Toronto NERO community.
These are invitations or prospective contacts, not completed interviews.
No statements in this article should be understood as newly obtained testimony from those individuals.
We hope their accounts may clarify the beginnings, internal disagreements and creative decisions that surviving records cannot fully explain.
The purpose is not to ask founders merely to repeat the familiar institutional history.
It is to understand what people actually remember.
What surprised them?
Which early decisions proved important?
What went wrong?
What did they learn?
And what do they believe later generations have misunderstood about their work?
Those questions may be more valuable than another anniversary date.
Why Canada’s LARP history matters
What makes the Canadian story distinctive is not one spectacular event.
It is the coexistence of different methods for creating continuing fictional worlds.
Québec developed an extensive grandeur nature culture in which physical places became central to the experience.
Ontario provides evidence of early fantasy LARP organisation, experimental theatre and persistent supernatural communities.
Western and Atlantic groups established their own traditions, often supported by local relationships and regional circumstances.
National and international networks connected players whose characters might never have existed in the same physical space.
These forms developed through different combinations of imagination, rule systems and social organisation.
Some worlds required buildings.
Others required dependable records and agreements.
Some depended upon physical combat.
Others drew their intensity from negotiations between characters.
A theatrical experiment demonstrated how strongly the purpose of an experience could change when participants performed for spectators.
Across the country, the recurring challenge was the same.
How can a group of people create an imagined situation and give their decisions meaningful consequences?
The answers differed.
That is what makes the history worth telling.
A country of worlds that remember
Return to the map on the table.
It stretches from the Pacific coast across the Prairies, past Ontario and Québec, towards the Atlantic.
The scale is enormous.
Some communities are separated by thousands of kilometres.
Their events do not all use the same rules.
Their costumes, fictional settings and creative priorities can be strikingly different.
Yet each depends upon an extraordinary human agreement.
People gather in an ordinary place and decide that, for a time, it will mean something else.
A woodland path becomes the road to a fictional settlement.
A hall becomes a supernatural court.
A set of buildings becomes a town whose people possess an accumulated history.
The world exists because its participants agree to inhabit it.
It changes because their actions matter within it.
And it continues because other people are willing to maintain the relationships and structures that make returning possible.
Mara traces a route across the map.
“So we can’t say where the very first Canadian LARP happened?”
“Not yet,” Stacy answers.
“But we know some of the people who helped build the communities?”
“We do.”
“And we’re asking them what they remember?”
Elshara nods.
“That’s how we learn more.”
Loki studies the map.
“I still want a house at Bicolline.”
Sean looks at Kelvin.
“Have you told him about the maintenance?”
Kelvin shakes his head.
“Or the building work?”
“No.”
“Or the administration?”
“Definitely not.”
Loki beams.
“Can I have a dragon?”
For a moment, everyone is silent.
Then Mara smiles.
“Maybe we should let him write the application.”
That, in its own peculiar way, is where our story ends.
Not with a definitive founding date.
Not with the biggest battle or the tallest building.
But with the understanding that a world becomes meaningful through the people who create, inhabit and remember it.
Canada’s live action roleplaying history is still being reconstructed.
Its earliest chapters remain incomplete.
Its living communities continue adding new ones.
And somewhere between the forests, villages, theatres and city halls of a vast country, the old experiment continues.
People imagine another world.
They invite others inside.
And together, they discover what happens next.
The worlds are imaginary. The histories people create within them are real.
Historical sources and further reading
This article uses contemporary records, official organisational histories, scholarly writing and published journalism. Organisations’ own histories are identified as such. Where early dates remain uncertain, claims have not been silently promoted into established facts.
Early organisations and documentary evidence
- Eric Paul Parent, Le loisir immersif – Une réalité parallèle bien réelle, Université du Québec à Trois-Rivières, 2022 — Discussion of Québec GN and the foundation of L’Atelier du loisir in 1990.
- Canadian Intellectual Property Office, NERO trademark application No. 0775000 — Official record filed 6 March 1995, naming Quentin Salzer, Jeremy Day and Paul Gyori. The June 1992 date is an applicant claim.
- Office québécois de la langue française, Jeu de rôle grandeur nature — Official terminology and definition.
Québec and permanent immersive worlds
- Duché de Bicolline, official history and organisation — Institutional account identifying 1994 and the first Grande Bataille in 1996.
- Mathieu Galarneau, Connaissez-vous Bicolline?, L’Éclaireur Progrès, 14 August 2015 — Contemporary reporting on the site’s scale and development as of 2015.
- Bernard Lepage, Plus de 5000 participants attendus à la Grande Bataille, L’Écho de Maskinongé, 24 June 2022 — Contemporary coverage of the post-pandemic return; forecasts are not final attendance statistics.
- Ghislain Chauvette, Les Terres de Bélénos : de l’aide financière espérée, La Nouvelle Union, 22 December 2020 — Reporting identifying 1998 as the founding year and documenting the practical difficulties of maintaining the venue during the pandemic.
Ontario, experimental theatre and supernatural chronicles
- Moyra Turkington, A Look Back From the Future: Play and Performance in Biosphere 2013, Analog Game Studies, 13 September 2015 — Firsthand analytical account distinguishing improvised serial theatre from participatory LARP.
- Pickering News Advertiser, 1 April 2005, p. 27 — Contemporary reporting identifying Edward Watt as Underworld co-creator and describing the Durham-region scene.
- Underworld LARP, official website — Organisational information, game material and surviving later rules.
- Canada at Midnight, official website — Founding year 2002, contemporary campaigns and the announcement of Widening Gyre for 2026.
Western Canada and regional development
- Medieval Chaos, 2026 season calendar — The organisation describes 2026 as its twenty-first year.
- Medieval Chaos, official game and rules resources — Contemporary information on Dagger Deep and the current form of the game.
- Medieval Chaos, official contact information — Organisational leadership and channels for further historical enquiries.
Atlantic Canada and recent community history
- Global News, May 2019 reporting on vandalism at an Underworld LARP site in Cape Breton — Contemporary coverage of the incident.
- Underworld: Tempest Grove — Regional organisational information.
The wider history of early Canadian campus games, individual regional groups and relationships between French- and English-language communities requires further archival research. Sources documenting today’s events cannot automatically establish the origins of communities decades earlier.
Continue the journey — One Hobby, Many Beginnings
This essay forms part of One Hobby, Many Beginnings, Mythveil Chronicles’ international historical series exploring the people and communities behind live action roleplaying.
Our purpose is not to award one country the title of inventor of an international hobby.
We want to understand how different groups experimented, learned from one another and developed their own approaches to living fictional worlds.
Explore the previous chapters:
The History of LARP in the UK — From Treasure Trap to Worlds of Thousands
The History of LARP in Ireland — From Convention Rooms to Living Worlds
The History of LARP in Italy — From Forgotten Beginnings to Living History
The History of LARP in Australia — From Canberra Freeforms to Living Worlds
The History of LARP in New Zealand — From Forgotten Dungeons to Living Worlds
We welcome historical documents, corrections, eyewitness testimony and written interviews from participants in Canada’s many live roleplaying communities.
At Mythveil Chronicles, we explore historical research, meaningful player agency and the craft of creating worlds that remember what people do within them.
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