by Dave Kot, MS

I hope the North Pole still hums with that steady mix of joy and hard work. How have you and Mrs. Claus been doing since her hip surgery? Have the reindeer nudged you toward stronger coffee on these long nights?

This year, I would like to ask for something that does not fit neatly in a stocking. I am not asking for myself as much as I am asking for the communities I serve. Many people feel shut out of mental health support right now. Insurance feels complicated, costs seem high, and traditional services can feel intimidating, especially for autistic and other neurodivergent folks. At the same time, so many of those same people gather happily around tables for tabletop role-playing games. They will show up for stories, dice, and friendship long before they will walk into a clinic.

That gap between “I need help” and “I feel safe showing up” is where my wish lives.

Psychiatrist Irvin Yalom spent his career describing what makes groups heal. He spoke about hope, shared experiences, cohesion, and the way people become a little braver together than they feel alone. When I sit at a TTRPG table with players who laugh, argue, plan, and celebrate, I see those same factors in motion. People bond through shared threats and shared victories. They practice speaking up, listening, negotiating, and staying when things feel hard. For autistic and other neurodivergent players, the predictable rules and shared stories create a kind of scaffold. Conversation becomes easier when it moves through characters and metaphors rather than confrontation.

My wish is simple to say and complex to build: I would like to help start a movement that treats well-facilitated tabletop role-playing groups as a serious tool for group mental health, not a quirky side hobby.

I do not mean turning every game into therapy. I do not want game tables to become covert clinics in disguise. What I imagine instead looks like psychoeducational and skills-based groups that take place in community spaces and game stores, guided by two kinds of leaders. One leader sits in the role of Game Master or storyteller, focused on pacing, rules, and narrative. The other leader comes from the mental health world, such as a Licensed Social Worker, focused on framing, consent, accessibility, and debriefing.

Together, they create small groups that follow Yalom’s best practices for healthy group development, but they do it in a format that feels accessible and fun. Participants do not need to arrive with a diagnosis or a treatment plan. They arrive to play. Along the way, they practice coping skills, boundary setting, communication, and problem-solving in a contained story space. Afterward, they talk briefly about what worked, what felt hard, and how those patterns show up outside the game.

I have seen versions of this work already in Therapeutically Applied Role-Playing groups. Those models often sit firmly inside clinical practice. My wish stretches that idea into the wider community. I want game stores, libraries, churches, and community centers to feel comfortable hosting structured groups that place mental health and neurodivergent accessibility at the center of design, without demanding that every participant step into formal treatment. I want insurance providers and agencies to recognize that some of these groups can be billed and supervised responsibly, while others function as preventative and supportive programs that reduce loneliness and despair before they become crises.

Santa, if you can help with anything, I am asking for allies.

I would like mental health professionals who are curious about games to see that their group skills already translate. They understand consent, safety, and group stages. They simply need a partner who understands character sheets and dice. I would like game masters to recognize that their craft carries more weight than “just entertainment.” When they learn basic group dynamics and trauma awareness, they can become powerful co-facilitators of hope. I would like small business owners and community leaders to understand that hosting these groups makes their spaces more than shops or halls. It turns them into hubs of connection and advocacy in a time when many people feel alone.

Underneath all of this sits one more wish. I would like autistic and other neurodivergent people to find tables where their strengths are honored. Pattern recognition, deep focus, and rich inner worlds fit beautifully inside collaborative storytelling. When groups respect sensory needs, clarify expectations, and allow players to step in and out as they feel safe, those same traits become assets instead of liabilities. That shift in context can change how a person sees themselves long after the dice stop rolling.

You know better than most how traditions evolve. Somewhere along the way, a bishop, a story, and a generous spirit turned into a mythic figure who visits homes with gifts and reminders that people are worthy of care. I hope that tabletop games can become part of a similar tradition. Not as a replacement for healthcare, but as a gentle, familiar doorway into it. A place where people practice being part of something, feel seen, and discover that their choices matter.

So my wish is this: help me find the right collaborators, institutions, and opportunities to lift this idea from a single table to a wider movement. Help mental health professionals, game masters, small businesses, and community leaders see one another as partners in group wellbeing. Help this take root in ways that are ethical, sustainable, and joyful.

If you still like hot cocoa, I will leave a mug on the mantle and a few painted miniatures near the cookies, so you can see what our gaming worlds look like. Thank you for listening again this year, and for the way your story continues to remind people that generosity and imagination still matter.

With hope,

Dave Kot,

Autism at Face Value