This week, writer Gloria Liu explored one of the great tensions in modern society: to board game or not to board game? Liu recounts the tale of an evening, years ago, when she had just moved to a new town, and had received an invite from a few well-meaning friends for her to join in on one of those sacred, demanding Adult Tabletop Nights—gatherings where Monopoly and Yahtzee have been replaced with much more modern cardboard boxes bearing lush graphic design and containing a multitude of plastic chits and, of course, a devastatingly thick, PTSD-inducing instruction manual.
Liu, through no fault of her own, was totally lost. The game’s many rules whooshed through her brain, leaving her staring at an overcrowded, symbol-dense board in the same way you and I might gaze into the harsh light of the LCD McDonald’s menu after 12 and a half gins and tonic. The other, more fluent guests started scoring points in ways she couldn’t comprehend, a situation that tends to evoke a unique sort of befuddled, cuckolded rage in table-gaming newcomers. Nobody had any fun. Not the hosts, and certainly not Liu, which is what led her to publish her treatise in the first place. Please, for the love of God, stop it with the board game nights, she begged. She’d much rather attend a dinner party—or, hell, an ax-throwing bar, if there must be an activity involved—than attempt to decipher Dominion or Puerto Rico ever again.
I am a dyed-in-the-wool board gaming sicko. I listen to tabletop podcasts, watch tabletop YouTube videos, and once owned over 300 tabletop games before paring down my collection considerably after moving to New York. (I fell back into the hobby during the pandemic, and at my current rate of purchase, I will surely break my previous disconcerting ownership record in due time.) This makes me the exact sort of person who should object with Liu’s thesis, perhaps by listing off a litany of self-help methods to make her board gaming dalliances more enjoyable or fruitful.
I think a lot of those tips can be useful. You can, for instance, start with some lighter fare (like Ticket to Ride) and never, by any means, indulge the Devil’s Promise of “We’ll just figure it out as we go along” when learning the rules. (That attitude worked for elementary school Monopoly afternoons, but it will only bring you pain with this new kind of adult game.) But frankly, after a decade with this hobby, and after desperately trying to tabletop-pill so many of my wonderfully appeasing friends—an effort that’s led to innumerable unsatisfying board game nights along the way—I’ve become incredibly sympathetic to Liu’s perspective. Not everyone needs to be into tabletop gaming. If you propose they join and they seem at all hesitant? Leave them alone!
To be clear, there is truly nothing I love more than a transcendent board game session. The modern incarnation of the hobby—removed from the Target-clearance-aisle trash that continues to besmirch its definition—is absolutely swollen with incredible, transformative experiences. A buddy and I regularly play Twilight Struggle, a globe-trotting two-player war game that beautifully simulates the cloak-and-dagger intrigue of the Cold War and routinely ends with one person accidentally triggering nuclear Armageddon. The other night, my girlfriend and I played Obsession, an airtight, Jane Austen-inspired strategy game in which points are scored by outfitting the best country estate and hosting the superior parties. I desperately want everyone to witness the euphoric tactical flourishes and wonderful social interactions that a great board game can foster in the right environment, but I have also come to understand that for some people, a pile of cardboard will always be a pile of cardboard. It yields no magic to them, and the prospect of sitting around a table for hours on end in order to determine if playing the red card or the green card will be more valuable to their long-term metastrategy fills them with unspeakable dread. If I’m being brutally honest with myself, I can’t really blame them.
So I’ve pared down my tabletop guest list to those who I know, without a shadow of a doubt, are deeply into board games. I no longer feel the need to convert my friends who are not enmeshed in the community, and they, in turn, don’t have to treat me with the kind but firm reluctance we tend to offer those who knock on our door with a Bible in hand. Board gamers come in all shapes and sizes; my table is routinely surrounded by sports writers, political wonks, tech-startup types, Formula 1 die-hards, and my mom, people who have nothing in common save for the distinct, inarticulable psychic energy that all board gamers tend to share. On the other hand, some people you’d think would be a shoo-in for the hobby—like my own brother, who plays six hours of World of Warcraft every day—hate the scene with a shocking passion that I occasionally take personally. There’s no rhyme or reason to this hobby. You just know a board gamer when you see one.
This new no-conversion approach has been a healthy pivot for our group because it’s allowed us to indulge in some of the demanding extremes of board gaming without worrying about any stragglers or agnostics. Recently we played Here I Stand: Wars of the Reformation 1517–1555, which simulates the religious bloodshed in Europe during the 16th century. It required a good 10 hours to learn and play, which, needless to say, can be orchestrated only if everyone is on the same page about how they wish to spend a Saturday.
I ask that my fellow board game freaks take my advice. Let us please save people like Liu the trouble, and instead enjoy the hobby with those who are already in the family. If we love our friends, then we shouldn’t want to inflict pain upon them, and frankly, there is nothing more agonizing than sitting through something you neither care about nor understand. Nothing, not even the most beautiful plastic miniatures you’ve ever seen, can alter someone’s DNA.
This content was originally published here.
