Is Vermis, Lost Dungeons And Forbidden Woods Worth Reading?

Imagine if someone distilled the essence of every creepy fairy tale and dungeon crawl into a single, gorgeously unsettling package. That’s 'Lost Dungeons and Forbidden Woods.' I picked it up on a whim and ended up spending hours poring over its pages, half mesmerized, half unnerved. The way it blends instructional text ('how to survive a sentient forest') with surreal vignettes creates this unique vibe—part field guide, part nightmare diary. Perfect for moody autumn nights or when you want to feel like you’ve discovered something forbidden. My D&D group’s already stealing ideas from it.

Vermis' 'Lost Dungeons and Forbidden Woods' is this weird, beautiful beast of a book that feels like stumbling into an arcane tome someone left in a forgotten library. It’s not your typical fantasy read—more like a cryptic, illustrated guide to a world that doesn’t exist, yet somehow feels eerily familiar. The artwork alone is worth the price of admission: these intricate, darkly whimsical drawings pull you into labyrinths and cursed forests that linger in your imagination long after you close the book. But here’s the thing—it’s not for everyone. If you crave linear narratives or clear rules, you might bounce off hard. It’s deliberately opaque, almost like a puzzle box disguised as a bestiary. Yet that’s also its magic. I kept flipping back, noticing new details, scribbling notes like some obsessed scholar. It’s less about 'reading' and more about letting the atmosphere seep into you. For fans of 'From Soft' games or old-school tabletop RPGs, it’s pure catnip. Others might just see a pretty art book. Me? I’ve already pre-ordered the sequel.

What really hooked me was how it plays with ambiguity. The text hints at myths and monsters without ever fully explaining them, leaving room for your brain to fill in the gaps. It’s like the 'Dark Souls' of books—rewarding if you enjoy piecing together lore from fragments. The physical design also deserves praise: rough-edged pages, that muted color palette, even the font feels like part of the aesthetic. My only gripe? I wish it were longer. Some sections tease concepts I desperately want expanded (what is the 'Crimson Well,' really?). But maybe that’s the point. It’s a book that haunts you precisely because it refuses to overexplain. If you’re okay with that—or better yet, love it—then yeah, absolutely worth reading. Just don’t expect tidy answers.