Finding a roommate in a fantasy world should be easy. There are taverns full of strangers, adventurers constantly looking to split expenses, and wizards who can apparently fit an entire mansion somewhere they found in their pocket.

And yet, your budget gets you a two-bedroom above a blacksmith with “rustic ventilation” and a prospective housemate who asks whether the lease specifically prohibits ritual circles.

You tell yourself to keep an open mind. Everyone has quirks. Your last roommate played the lute at midnight and described washing dishes as “a journey.” How much worse could a monster be?

Quite a lot, actually.

For this deeply unscientific ranking, we’re assuming these creatures have agreed to share a home and attempt something resembling domestic life. Yes, even the gelatinous cube. It put down a deposit. Let’s hear it out.

We’re judging cleanliness, boundaries, financial responsibility, and the likelihood that you’ll survive asking them to turn the music down.

Welcome to the rental market. Roll initiative.

6. The Gelatinous Cube

The listing said: “Extremely clean. Minimalist lifestyle.”

You wanted someone who would clean the kitchen without being asked.

Congratulations. The kitchen is gone.

A gelatinous cube has an admirable commitment to removing things from surfaces, accompanied by a less admirable understanding of which things should remain. Crumbs, leftovers, the handwritten recipe from your grandmother: all processed with the same professional indifference.

You discover your missing house key floating inside it on Tuesday. On Wednesday, your favorite spoon joins the display. By Friday, its interior looks like an archaeological exhibit about your week.

Getting past it in the hallway requires coordination. You shout, “Coming through!” It continues being eight hundred pounds of corridor.

You’ve missed work twice.

And boundaries? You once sat it down to discuss personal space. Technically, you stood nearby while it slowly absorbed the chair you’d brought for emphasis.

Still, there are advantages. No loud phone calls. No terrible boyfriend permanently occupying the sofa. Excellent pest control, although you should probably check on the cat.

The trouble is that a cube can be a perfectly considerate roommate by cube standards and still leave you explaining to your insurer why your trousers dissolved while you were wearing them.

Their defense: A slow wobble that you have chosen to interpret as remorse.

Roommate rating: 5/10. Spotless floors. Unclear ownership of anything below knee height.

5. The Vampire

The listing said: “Quiet professional. Works nights.”

The vampire interviews beautifully. Polite, well dressed, excellent references from people whose portraits look several centuries old.

Then the blackout curtains arrive.

Every window is covered. The apartment becomes a velvet-lined migraine. You try opening the kitchen blinds to keep your basil alive and receive a six-paragraph message about respecting shared spaces.

Your basil dies. The vampire sends flowers, which is thoughtful until you realize they’re from a funeral.

Living with a vampire also means learning that someone can be four hundred years old and still leave passive-aggressive notes on the fridge. “Kindly refrain from touching the bottles on the second shelf” is reasonable. Sealing the note in wax feels excessive.

Dinner is complicated. You can’t share garlic bread. They can’t share whatever’s in the bottles. Every date you bring home receives an unsettling amount of attention around the neck.

Their schedule is worse. At three in the morning, you hear footsteps, dramatic sighing, and someone playing a single mournful piano melody. You don’t own a piano. Apparently they had one delivered while you were asleep.

On the bright side, they can afford rent. On the less bright side, they refer to your half of the apartment as “the servants’ wing.”

Their defense: “I have lived with many people, and none have complained for long.”

Roommate rating: 4/10. Financially stable. Emotionally exhausting. Will absolutely outlive the couch you’re still paying off.

4. The Red Dragon

The listing said: “Independent. Financially secure. Loves a warm home.”

The dragon has money. You have seen the money. There is so much money that getting to the washing machine now requires mountaineering equipment.

And yet, rent is late.

Every month, the same conversation. You point out that payment is due. The dragon rests one enormous claw on a pile of gold and explains that its assets are “currently tied up.”

In what? Being under you?

Shared ownership is another issue. The dragon considers everything in the apartment part of its hoard, including the television, your winter coat, and a ceramic frog your aunt gave you. You weren’t particularly attached to the frog until someone threatened to incinerate you for moving it.

The thermostat is set to “forge.” Your houseplants are crispy. Your landlord has questions about the hole in the roof, and the dragon insists the hole improves access.

Still, we understand the temptation to collect shiny things. Our Dragon Resin seven-piece D&D dice set, with amber resin, dark details, and sparkling flecks, makes a much more manageable addition to a hoard. It fits in a dice bag. It won’t annex the laundry room.

Just keep the receipt somewhere your roommate can’t declare an ancestral claim to it.

Their defense: “You never specifically said the security deposit wasn’t treasure.”

Roommate rating: 3/10. Incredible home security. You are occasionally included among the intruders.

3. The Mind Flayer

The listing said: “Thoughtful housemate seeking like-minded individual.”

You should have noticed the wording.

Living with a mind flayer means never enjoying the privacy of an unspoken opinion. You look at its new wall art and think, That’s hideous.

From the other room: “It’s an original.”

You can’t rehearse a difficult conversation. You can’t silently resent the dishes. You can’t pretend you didn’t see its message, because it knows you saw the message and has already experienced your proposed excuse.

Then there’s the food situation. Most roommate disputes involve someone eating your leftovers. This one involves you wanting to retain the organ responsible for remembering where you put them.

You ask whether it could please avoid discussing brains while you’re having breakfast.

It says you’re making it uncomfortable in its own home.

It also keeps inviting its “collective” over. You ask how many people are coming. It says the question reflects an unnecessarily individualistic perspective.

You buy more chairs anyway.

Perhaps the worst part is its habit of giving unsolicited advice directly inside your skull. You’re trying to fall asleep, and suddenly something with tentacles is suggesting you revisit your five-year plan.

You have enough trouble with your own internal monologue. You don’t need one that charges you for broadband.

Their defense: “Deep down, you agree with me.”

Roommate rating: 2/10. Excellent communication. You desperately wish there were less of it.

2. The Lich

The listing said: “Mature academic. Long-term tenant preferred.”

You thought “long-term” meant eighteen months.

The lich has been here since the building was a watchtower. It remembers the original landlord. It may have killed the original landlord. Either way, it’s extremely confident about what counts as normal wear and tear.

Its bedroom is full of books, candles, and objects you’ve been told never to touch. This would be fine if the objects stayed in its bedroom. You found a suspicious jeweled box in the cereal cupboard, moved it to reach the oats, and triggered a household meeting that lasted until dawn.

Apparently, “DO NOT TOUCH” applies to everything except your oat milk.

The lich is always working on its research. At midnight: chanting. At two: chanting, but louder. At four: a brief silence followed by the noise of something large becoming someone else’s problem.

Then there are the skeletons. The lich says they help with chores, which sounds promising until one spends six hours sweeping the same corner and another puts every fork in the bathroom.

You ask it to improve their instructions. It says managing the household is a shared responsibility.

Now you supervise the skeletons.

The lich never plans to leave, never sleeps, and has centuries to dispute a utility bill. It once challenged a late fee so thoroughly that the billing department changed its name.

Their defense: “I’ll get to it. We have time.”

Roommate rating: 1/10. You will die before the chore chart gets updated. This may not end your involvement.

1. The Beholder

The listing said: “Security-conscious homeowner with excellent attention to detail.”

The beholder notices everything.

Every crumb. Every visitor. Every time you adjust the thermostat by one degree. You thought living with someone who could see in several directions would help with finding the remote. Instead, it’s conducting surveillance on your cheese consumption.

It believes your friends are plotting against it. It believes the landlord is plotting against it. It believes the houseplant is unusually well positioned to gather intelligence.

The houseplant has been removed pending investigation.

You suggest a chore rotation. It presents a competing document establishing itself as Supreme Overseer of Domestic Affairs, with you listed under “miscellaneous.”

You ask why it never vacuums. It says the floor is primarily your area, since you insist on standing on it.

And the eye rays make disagreements difficult. You can’t say, “Let’s cool off and revisit this later,” when the laundry basket has just been disintegrated. That was where you were keeping your emergency clean socks.

If you enjoy the unsettling eye contact but prefer to keep your furniture, our Beholder’s Eye seven-piece liquid core dice set offers moving eyes inside dark blue dice. All the staring, considerably less interference with your tenancy.

Their defense: “I have reviewed your concerns and determined you are the problem.”

Roommate rating: 0/10. Has already left you a one-star review.

Before You Sign the Lease

If you absolutely must live with a D&D monster, get the agreement in writing. Define “guest,” “shared food,” and “acceptable number of skeletons.” Ask whether the furniture is furniture. Request references from someone currently alive.

Most importantly, check that everyone understands what a deposit is. You do not want to discover, on moving day, that yours has been invested in a phylactery.

Which monster would you refuse to live with—and which one could you tolerate if rent included utilities? Tell us your pick. The beholder is reading the comments, so choose your words carefully.

Game on.