By an Exhausted Hobbyist Who Still Hasn’t Finished Painting Their Space Marines
Prologue: In the Beginning, There Was Dice… and Plastic Crack
Let’s set the scene: It’s the early 1980s. Margaret Thatcher is prime minister, mullets are (regrettably) in fashion, and a group of eccentric Brits huddled in a Nottingham workshop are about to unleash a cultural behemoth. Their mission? To create a tabletop game so gloriously over-the-top, so dripping with lore, and so financially ruinous that it would dominate basements and drain bank accounts for decades to come.
Welcome to the history of Warhammer—a tale of ambition, obsession, and enough fictional carnage to make Shakespeare blush.
Chapter 1: The Humble Origins – Or, “How to Sell Miniatures Without Really Trying”
Our story begins not with a bang, but with a shrewd business decision. In 1975, Games Workshop (GW) was founded by Ian Livingstone, Steve Jackson, and John Peake as a modest mail-order company selling board games. But it wasn’t until 1983 that the first Warhammer Fantasy Battle lumbered onto the scene, thanks to the feverish imagination of game designer Rick Priestley.
Priestley’s vision? A medieval fantasy wargame where players could field armies of elves, dwarfs, and orcs—except these weren’t Tolkien’s elves. Oh no. These elves had attitude. These dwarfs had grudges longer than a CVS receipt. And the orcs? They spoke in Cockney accents and believed purple made them stealthy. (Spoiler: It did not.)
The genius of Warhammer wasn’t just its gameplay. It was GW’s diabolical business model: Sell the rules, then sell the miniatures. Players didn’t just buy a game; they bought a hobby requiring glue, paint, and the patience of a saint. By 1987, GW had merged with Citadel Miniatures, cementing its status as the puppet master of plastic addiction.
Chapter 2: The Birth of 40,000 Reasons to Empty Your Savings Account
If Warhammer Fantasy was the quirky older sibling, Warhammer 40,000 (1987) was its cyborg-punk cousin hopped up on neon and nihilism. Set in the 41st millennium, where “there is only war,” 40k blended Dune’s galactic feudalism, Alien’s body horror, and a dash of Monty Python absurdity.
The debut rulebook, Rogue Trader, wasn’t so much a game as a 300-page manifesto. It introduced the Imperium of Man—a fascist, theocratic empire led by a comatose psychic emperor (who’s definitely not a corpse, thank you). Then there were the Space Marines: eight-foot-tall genetically engineered zealots with chainsaw swords and daddy issues. And let’s not forget the Tyranids, a race of bio-engineered bugs that made Starship Troopers look like a picnic.
40k’s lore was a glorious mess. It was dense. It was contradictory. It was the narrative equivalent of a Jackson Pollock painting. And fans loved it. The game’s tagline—“In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war”—became a mantra for a generation of gamers who’d rather argue about bolter calibers than attend prom.
Chapter 3: The Golden Age – Or, “How Many Editions Does It Take to Screw In a Lightbulb?”
The 1990s and early 2000s were Warhammer’s Renaissance period. GW released updated editions of both Fantasy and 40k, each more elaborate than the last. The miniatures evolved from lumpy lead figures to finely detailed works of art (that still took 40 hours to paint).
Key milestones:
- 3rd Edition 40k (1998): Streamlined rules! Plastic miniatures! A sudden spike in parental concern over “Chaos worship!”
- The Lord of the Rings License (2001): GW cashed in on Peter Jackson’s films, proving that even hobbits could be grimdark if you gave them enough swords.
- The Rise of the Black Library (1997): GW’s publishing arm churned out novels faster than a Necron tomb world awakening. Dan Abnett’s Gaunt’s Ghosts and Sandy Mitchell’s Ciaphas Cain series turned 40k into a literary phenomenon.
But GW’s ambition wasn’t without missteps. The company’s stock price soared, only to crash in the early 2000s due to overexpansion and a fan revolt over price hikes. (Pro tip: Never tell a hobbyist their 50tanknowcosts50tanknowcosts75. They’ll sharpen their pitchforks—or more accurately, their X-Acto knives.)
Chapter 4: Turbulent Times – AKA “The Age of ‘Why Is Everything Red Now?’”
By the 2010s, Warhammer faced existential threats. Video games like World of Warcraft lured gamers to digital realms. Tabletop rivals like X-Wing and Magic: The Gathering offered quicker, cheaper fixes. GW’s response? Double down on the grimdark.
In 2015, they nuked Warhammer Fantasy with The End Times, destroying the Old World in a cataclysmic event that made Game of Thrones’ Red Wedding look tame. In its place rose Age of Sigmar—a high-fantasy reboot with floating continents and gods named things like “Sigmar” and “Nagash.” Fans were… divided. Some praised the fresh start; others mourned their discontinued Bretonnian knights like fallen comrades.
Meanwhile, 40k thrived by leaning into its absurdity. The 2017 8th Edition simplified rules, luring back lapsed players. Primaris Marines—bigger, beefier Space Marines—arrived, sparking debates hotter than a plasma grenade. (“Are they cool or a cash grab?” Answer: Yes.)
Chapter 5: Modern Warhammer – Or, “How Henry Cavill Became Our Messiah”
Today, Warhammer is a multimedia empire. The tabletop remains the core, but GW’s tentacles stretch into video games (Total War: Warhammer, Darktide), TV (Amazon’s upcoming series starring Cavill), and even themed chess sets (because regular chess wasn’t nerdy enough).
The secret to Warhammer’s endurance? Community. It’s a hobby that rewards obsession. You’re not just painting miniatures; you’re crafting a saga. You’re not just rolling dice; you’re orchestrating galactic genocide. And when GW missteps—say, trademarking the word “Space Marine”—fans howl, adapt, and keep playing.
COVID-19 lockdowns turbocharged the hobby. Stuck at home, millions discovered the meditative joy of painting a Tyranid swarm while questioning their life choices. GW’s profits soared, proving that despair and plastic kits are recession-proof.
Epilogue: For the Emperor… and the Shareholders
Warhammer’s history is a saga of contradictions. It’s a game about endless war that’s built friendships spanning decades. It’s a universe so bleak it makes 1984 look upbeat, yet it inspires creativity, humor, and passion. And it’s a company that’s been accused of greed… yet somehow still has us lining up for $35 action figures.
As we march into the future—bracing for 12th Edition rules, AI-written codexes, or whatever madness GW dreams up next—one truth remains: Warhammer endures because it’s more than a game. It’s a lifestyle. A cult. A reason to say, “I’ll just buy one more squad… for the Emperor.”
Now, if you excuse me, I have 3,000 points of unpainted Orks judging me from the shelf.
Written by someone who definitely didn’t procrastinate on painting their army to write this.
For the Emperor. And for the love of all that’s holy, thin your paints.
