Every Friday night on a community sports field in Melbourne's inner north, a few hundred nerds dress up in historical armour and attack each other with foam latex swords. It's live action role play: turbocharged Dungeons & Dragons meets medieval re-enactment.
Scout Boxall has been Larping for seven years. It's the biggest thing in their life outside of comedy, and the two scenes have a lot in common. Everyone's broke. Everyone was bullied in high school. No one gets into Larp or standup if things are going well.
The gatekeeping commonality
The biggest commonality is the gatekeeping. A crusted old comic in the corner of a greenroom gasps: "You're a fan of standup, are you? Name three of Carl Barron's best jokes." Their Larp counterpart, a polyamorous he/they in a top hat with a cog on it, twirls a cane: "So you like Warhammer Fantasy Battle? Name three spells an Elven cleric can use in combat." Boxall would like to see those two sit down and collectively name three women who feel safe around them.
Swordcraft Quest is one of the biggest events on Australia's Larp calendar. Hundreds of players pitch tents in a rocky cattle paddock in Pomborneit, Victoria to role play living in a medieval fantasy village for a week called Sudenburg. It's fully in character and immersive, save for a few modern conveniences. Even the most fearsome warrior needs a Portaloo and a soy flat white.
A week as Master of Coin
You can be a noble paladin, a sage elven scholar or a tricksy halfling bard. But if you're a real freak, like Boxall, you'll spend the week as a fiscally conservative tax agent. This year they were appointed Master of Coin, responsible for overseeing the town's finances. Their parents are retired microeconomists and they were conceived on budget night of 1994, so perhaps it was inevitable.
Money works weirdly in Larp. Twelve copper to a silver, 20 silver to a gold. A copper is worth between $3 and $6 in "shadow currency" (Australian dollars or Aud, pronounced "Ow-dh"). Four coppers is an hour of unskilled labour; two gets you a coffee. You can't cash them back in at the end of the game, so many Larp friends end up rich in coppers but live below the poverty line in the real world.
As an itinerant touring performer and freelance writer, a steady nine-to-five data-entry job handling huge amounts of cash was the ultimate fantasy. Boxall revelled in the brutal bureaucracy of it all. Each day they opened up the tax office, made players present their in-character documentation and declare their assets and then place a few of their precious copper coins into a box marked TAX OFFICE COFFERS – LOOTABLE ITEM.
Real-world dilemmas with a medieval slant
Throughout the week, players produced elaborate disguises, fraudulent documents and even held Boxall up at (fake foam) knife-point in fruitless attempts to steal the town's hoard. Each of these heists was prenegotiated out of character. The final night of the event, someone simply broke into the tent and took the coins for real, which has since sparked a genuine out-of-character investigation.
Tongue lodged firmly in cheek, Larpers love to replicate real-world dilemmas with a dirtbag medieval slant. Dwarven miners extract obsidian from a poisonous seam with indentured goblin child labour. (Fracking.) The Town Council funnels tax funds to their allies. (Cronyism.) Senate meetings grind to a standstill over whether to let in refugees who might bring an undead horde. (Xenophobia.)
When Larp and real life collide
Sometimes Larp and real life collide and form something that is technically "make-believe" but resonates beyond role play. Last year, a terminally ill player called Silas* knew it would be their last event, so they held their own funeral. Wearing elf ears and tucked into a mechanised wheelchair beneath heavy blankets, Silas laughed as friends took turns to deliver eulogies. Afterwards, they married their long-term partner in the tavern with a real celebrant presiding. The ceremony was soundtracked by live bards and emceed by a hulking man called The Mad Mage. It was a strange day that straddled two worlds: the collectively imagined realm of Sudenburg, where death can be reversed through magic, and the bleak reality of Silas' diagnosis.
Larp is a special interest that can verge into obsession. Boxall has sunk thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours into it. Their house is full to bursting with wool, linen and silk, plate armour, chain mail and a longbow. They have more Larp shoes than regular shoes, and their wardrobe is evenly split between the 21st, 16th and 14th centuries.
Boxall is not the only one with a Renaissance streak. Fantasy is having a massive cultural resurgence. We've gone from twee cottagecore to wenchcore, maidencore and castlecore. Chappell Roan wears chain mail armour and wields a sword on the red carpet. Every second queer in Brunswick Anytime Fitness has a gothic blackletter tattoo. An old high school Facebook friend who manages a Dunkin' Donuts posts about craving a "little hobbity life". Gen Z have even co-opted the term "Larper" to mean poser or fraud. In a time of relentless AI slop, fast fashion and impending climate apocalypse, we turn to the past. Well, a reimagining of a reimagining of the past: an ahistorical slurry of Arthurian romance, pre-Raphaelite idealism and dreamy Y2K aesthetics.
The Ren Faire has become an ironically cool place for twentysomethings to gnaw a turkey leg and prance around in Shein princess costumes. Larp remains the domain of the weirdo, the loser and the pedant. That's what makes it so special. It's given Boxall a chosen family, a community and – most importantly – the chance to go back in time for a week every year and pretend to be a cashed-up bureaucrat. Wouldn't trade it for all the copper in Sudenburg.
*Names have been changed. Scout Boxall is a standup comedian. Their latest solo show God's Favourite enjoyed a sold-out run at the Edinburgh fringe festival in 2026 and won the Pinder prize at Melbourne international comedy festival in 2025.
