My earliest memory of Magic: The Gathering goes back to when I was around five years old. At that time, I wasn’t concerned about mana curves, mechanics, or tournament victories. What captivated me was the vivid art, the poetic flavor text, and the sheer mystery that every card seemed to hold. One image that still lingers in my mind, even decades later, is Cat Warriors. It wasn’t just cardboard with ink; it was a gateway into realms filled with creatures, battles, and stories that let my young imagination soar.
By the time I was seven or eight, the game became something I actually played rather than just collected. My family had moved to the base of Mt. Rainier, where life was simple, and entertainment options were limited. The town had only two stores that mattered to me: an antique shop that sold Gundam kits and a Hallmark store that carried Magic, Pokémon, and Star Wars cards. Those small-town days shaped how I connected with games—they became more than pastimes, they were bridges to creativity and friendships.
Casual Play and Shifting Interests
Through my teens, Magic was always there, even if not at the center. I would collect for a while, then sell off the cards to fund other hobbies or obsessions. My time was often split between Diablo 2 marathons and Halo nights with friends. But even if I wasn’t shuffling up lands and creatures daily, the thought of the game was always present, waiting for the right moment to call me back.
When I turned twenty-one, that moment arrived. I had just stepped away from two years immersed in Heroclix, where I collected, judged, and competed at a local comic shop. That period honed my ability to think critically about strategy, probability, and high-level play. So when I returned to Magic, it hit me with a force that was completely new. I wasn’t dabbling anymore. I was diving headfirst into the currents of tournaments, testing, and relentless play.
The Golden Age of Competitive Dedication
With newfound stability in life—steady income, reliable transportation, and a hunger for competitive depth—I threw myself into tournaments. My deck of choice was blue-black faeries, a deck that defined its era. It was sharp, efficient, and often unbeatable. The only archetype that reliably challenged me was Jund, which had its own unique edge. Nights were spent drafting, weekends at prereleases, and I was entering events nearly every day of the week.
The atmosphere of that time was intoxicating. Midnight prereleases where we shuffled bleary-eyed yet excited, Saturdays filled with back-to-back events, and Sundays closing out with another chance to refine skill and expand the collection. The prize support, the camaraderie, and the thrill of victory formed a rhythm that became my world. But like all things, this rhythm shifted.
When the Game Began to Change
It was around Zendikar’s release that I felt the tides turning. The community I had surrounded myself with began to drift apart, as happens in every hobby. At the same time, the rising cost of competitive decks became a major obstacle. Jace, The Mind Sculptor wasn’t just a card—it was a wall that only those with deep pockets could climb. With copies exceeding one hundred dollars each, the dream of competing at the highest level required a financial commitment that didn’t align with my reality.
Personal struggles deepened this shift. Addiction entered my life, consuming time, money, and energy. The game I loved became difficult to maintain in the way I had before. Constructed decks fell away, and I stopped collecting altogether. Yet even in those turbulent years, I never fully walked away.
Discovering the Beauty of Limited Formats
When I could no longer sustain the arms race of constructed play, I leaned into the formats that had always fascinated me most: draft and sealed. Limited formats stripped away the financial disparity and brought everything back to fundamentals. They required skill, foresight, and adaptability. Every pack opened was a puzzle, and every draft pod a new battlefield.
Three reasons crystallized why the limited appeal to me more than anything else. First, it balanced the scales. No matter how much money a person had invested in the game, the cards on the table were what mattered. Second, it meant I could play without owning a massive collection. Third, even after a tough day of losses, I always left with something new—cards to admire or share. That sense of fairness and renewal kept me tethered when everything else tried to push me away.
A Decade of Traveling Play
By 2015, my life had changed again. Traveling became part of my identity, and with it came exposure to diverse communities. Along the way, I discovered an entire culture of casual players who loved Magic in its rawest form—unsleeved cards, improvised rules, and games played just for fun. These were the Rainbow gatherings, where kids and wanderers bonded over decks pieced together from donations and trades. It reminded me of why I fell in love with games in the first place.
Over the years, I found myself at Magic Cons and Command Fests across major cities—Vegas, Chicago, Portland, Seattle, Denver, LA, and more. Each event carried its own flavor, and I dove into them with enthusiasm. Some prereleases had me playing four events across a single weekend, while others I skipped entirely. Dragonstorm drafts captured my imagination, and I relished competing in sealed tournaments, winning a few and placing high in others.
Despite these adventures, I still wasn’t collecting. My philosophy remained: sell the cards of value, pass along the rest to kids or family, and keep the cycle moving. My nephew became a frequent recipient of my extras, and Rainbow kids often left with a few treasures to build into their casual decks.
Chasing New Frontiers
As much as Magic anchored me, curiosity led me to explore other games. When Richard Garfield released KeyForge, I leapt in, convinced it might be the future. Yet the spark didn’t last; a handful of games, and it faded away. Dragon Ball Super, Star Wars Unlimited, and Flesh and Blood each had their moments in my life, but none settled in long enough to matter. Collections came and went like waves against the shore, leaving behind only fleeting memories.
Rediscovering the Thrill at Magic Con Vegas
Then came a recent turning point: Magic Con Vegas. That weekend was electric. My friend and I dominated 2HG drafts, going undefeated multiple times. I entered a 150-person Grand Melee, outlasting dozens to reach the final sixteen, then followed it with another Melee where I made the top four. Match after match reaffirmed my skill and passion. The only downside was the value of the packs and the near-empty Prize Wall, but the joy of play overshadowed those details.
Returning to Portland afterward, fate had something new waiting. While dropping off a sell order at Mox Boarding House, I spotted something unusual by the register—a set of Star Trek: Lower Decks preconstructed decks, part of a game called Universus. Intrigued by the lenticular foils of the show’s characters, I decided to investigate further.
The Discovery of Universus
What I uncovered astonished me. Universus, a rebrand of the long-standing Ultimate Fighting System, had been around for nearly twenty years. It blended diverse intellectual properties into one cohesive game, a concept that Wizards of the Coast had only recently embraced with their own crossover lines. From Penny Arcade and Street Fighter to anime and new IPs, Universus had quietly been building a legacy that somehow slipped past me for nearly two decades.
Within days, I ordered the Star Trek decks, eager to dive in. My first matches of Boimler versus Tendi were eye-opening. The mechanics were fresh yet familiar, the pacing engaging, and the spirit of the game infectious. Before long, I found myself attending local tournaments, streaming old events, and watching regional championships online.
A New Era of Collecting and Playing
Now, for the first time in years, I’m back to collecting—not just cards but enthusiasm, community, and possibility. Decks are being built, sealed product is stacked on my shelf, and ideas for strategies swirl in my mind. Universus has ignited a passion that had dimmed since Zendikar, and it has even pulled friends along with me.
Three friends have already begun their own collections, and more are joining me at upcoming prereleases. It’s a renaissance of excitement, not only for this new discovery but also for the world of games as a whole. I still enjoy Magic, and I’ll continue to show up at prereleases and events, but now I carry with me a rekindled sense of wonder and a new horizon to explore.
The Spark That Caught My Attention
Standing in line at Mox Boarding House, I wasn’t expecting anything remarkable. My focus that day was simply to drop off cards from my recent Magic Con trip, clear some space, and maybe catch up with friends over a draft. Yet as I glanced toward the counter, a flash of vibrant color and familiar faces pulled me in. Four preconstructed decks from Star Trek: Lower Decks were sitting neatly on display. Boimler, Mariner, Tendi, and Rutherford, each captured in lenticular foil as if mid-transport from the ship, instantly drew me closer.
At first, it was curiosity. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lower Decks, with its mix of humor, clever references, and genuine affection for Star Trek lore. But this wasn’t just a collector’s item—it was part of something called Universus, a game I had never heard of before. That revelation alone was staggering. How could I, someone who had lived and breathed trading card games for decades, have completely missed an entire system that had been thriving since 2006?
Diving Into the History of a Hidden Giant
Back home, my curiosity turned into research. Universus wasn’t a brand-new idea; it was the rebranded form of the Ultimate Fighting System, a TCG launched nearly twenty years ago. As I dug through articles, forums, and videos, I realized this was more than just a quirky side project—it was a bold experiment in crossover design.
Universus had done what many thought impossible: blending franchises into a single playable ecosystem. From Street Fighter to Penny Arcade, from anime icons to fresh releases, it had gathered characters and worlds into one seamless card game. What struck me most was how long it had been doing this, well before Wizards of the Coast introduced Universes Beyond into Magic. Suddenly, it felt like I had stumbled upon an alternate history of the hobby, a parallel path that somehow had remained invisible to me until now.
The more I read, the more my intrigue grew. This wasn’t a game clinging to one identity—it was a tapestry of genres and fandoms, each integrated with thoughtful mechanics. And unlike my fleeting experiments with KeyForge, Dragon Ball Super, or Star Wars Unlimited, Universus had a resilience that came from nearly two decades of consistent evolution.
First Impressions at the Table
Within a week, I had ordered the set of four Star Trek decks online. As soon as they arrived, a friend came over, and we cracked them open with the excitement of kids on Christmas morning. The rules were clear enough to grasp quickly, though we had to look up a few interactions during our first matches.
Boimler versus Tendi was the opening showdown. Switching decks each round gave us a chance to feel out the flow of the system. What struck me was the rhythm of play—it balanced aggression and defense in a way that kept tension high, while still rewarding strategy over sheer luck. By the end of the evening, both of us were grinning, surprised at how engaging it had been right out of the box.
It wasn’t just that the decks were fun. It was the sense that here was a game designed with longevity in mind, built to encourage experimentation and adaptability. After so many years of limited formats and temporary collections, this felt like the beginning of something I could truly sink into again.
From Curiosity to Commitment
The first few games were enough to convince me that Universus deserved more of my time. Before long, I was poring over decklists on uvsultra. Online, researching card interactions, and watching old tournament footage. Weekly events at Mox became part of my schedule, and the anticipation of competing in a Store Championship lit a fire in me that I hadn’t felt since my earliest days grinding PTQs in Magic.
There was something profoundly different about this new chapter. It wasn’t just the novelty of a fresh system. It was the fact that Universus reminded me of why I loved card games in the first place. It wasn’t about chasing value or stockpiling binders—it was about community, creativity, and the thrill of discovery.
How Universus Differs From What Came Before
Comparisons with Magic are inevitable, given how central it has been in my life. Where Magic leans heavily into the balance of resource management and long-term strategy, Universus introduces a layer of momentum that feels immediate and visceral. Attacks chain together like combos in a fighting game, forcing players to think not just about what they play, but about the rhythm in which they play it.
This design choice makes every match dynamic. You can feel the push and pull of tempo in a way that mirrors the back-and-forth of a martial arts duel or a high-stakes brawl. It’s familiar enough to be accessible to seasoned card gamers, yet unique enough to stand on its own.
Another major difference lies in the crossover appeal. While Magic’s Universes Beyond still feels like an experiment, Universus has been blending properties seamlessly for years. The inclusion of Street Fighter, My Hero Academia, and now Star Trek demonstrates that it isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about creating a playground where all these identities coexist in meaningful, competitive ways.
A Growing Collection After Years Away
What surprised me most was how quickly I began collecting again. For nearly two decades, I avoided it. Every time I gained a stack of cards, I would sell or give them away, never letting the weight of a collection anchor me. But with Universus, the tide shifted. Sealed product stacked up, singles began to fill binders, and for the first time in years, I felt joy in simply owning and curating cards again.
The collecting wasn’t about investment or resale value. It was about building decks, exploring archetypes, and sharing the excitement with friends. For years, I had been hesitant to introduce new games to my circle, knowing they might not stick. Yet with Universus, three friends had already bought decks and boosters, and more were preparing for upcoming events like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles prerelease. The enthusiasm spread quickly, and for once, I wasn’t alone in my newfound passion.
Rediscovering Community Through Games
The heart of any TCG isn’t the cardboard—it’s the people. Universus reminded me of that truth. Weekly tournaments at Mox became chances not just to test strategies, but to connect with others who shared the same enthusiasm. Online streams of regional championships gave me a sense of belonging to a larger narrative, one that extended far beyond my local store.
For years, I had kept a distance from organized play, choosing the casual freedom of limited events and conventions. But now, I was ready to dive back into structured competition, to feel the rush of preparing for an event, sleeving up a deck, and stepping into a room buzzing with anticipation.
Why This Feels Different
It would be easy to chalk all of this up to novelty—the thrill of something new after years of playing the same game. But it goes deeper than that. Universus has reignited a sense of balance for me. It has brought back the joy of collecting without the burden of constant financial strain. It has offered competitive depth without locking victories behind price tags. It has opened doors to friendships, creativity, and the kind of storytelling that first drew me into games as a child.
This isn’t about replacing Magic. That game remains a cornerstone of my identity, and I’ll still attend prereleases, RCQs, and the occasional convention. But Universus has carved out its own space in my world—a space that feels fresh, vibrant, and full of possibility.
Looking Toward the Future
As I prepare for my first Store Championship, I can’t help but think about how far I’ve come since those early days of admiring Cat Warriors by the light of a desk lamp. The path has twisted through competitive highs, personal lows, casual experiments, and countless drafts. Yet here I am, once again sleeving up, brainstorming strategies, and building a collection that excites me.
This new chapter isn’t just about a card game—it’s about rediscovering the joy of play itself. It’s about embracing the thrill of discovery, the warmth of community, and the satisfaction of building something that lasts. Universus has opened a door I didn’t realize was still waiting for me, and stepping through it feels like coming home.
Building Decks and Testing Theories
One of the first thrills I rediscovered with Universus was the joy of deck-building. After years of drafting sealed pools and then quickly selling off cards, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to sit with a stack of possibilities and slowly sculpt a deck. The Star Trek: Lower Decks preconstructed decks gave me a starting point, but they were only the beginning.
Digging through uvsultra.online became a nightly ritual. I found myself experimenting with different builds, studying ratios, and weighing the balance between attacks, foundations, and actions. It felt both familiar and new—the same satisfaction I once felt sleeving up Faeries in Magic, but flavored with fresh mechanics and tempo considerations. Every adjustment carried immediate consequences, every swap altered the flow of the game in a noticeable way.
Unlike in Magic, where deck-building can sometimes feel dictated by strict archetypes or expensive staples, Universus invited me to tinker freely. Sure, there were competitive lists to draw inspiration from, but the mechanics encouraged innovation. I wasn’t just replicating a formula; I was learning the cadence of a new system, one that rewarded creativity as much as precision.
Preparing for Local Play
Attending weekly events at Mox became an anchor for my exploration. Each Tuesday, I packed my freshly sleeved decks, walked into that familiar store, and felt a mix of nerves and excitement I hadn’t felt since my earliest Magic tournaments. The community was small but enthusiastic, with players eager to explain interactions, trade strategies, and celebrate each other’s victories.
In many ways, it reminded me of my first days grinding local Friday Night Magic. There was that same mixture of casual energy and competitive fire, the sense that every player was part of a shared journey. But this time, the pressure felt lighter. I wasn’t chasing Pro Tour invites or trying to prove myself. I was simply enjoying the ride, savoring every match as a chance to grow and connect.
The Store Championship on the Horizon
The announcement of a Store Championship lit a fire under me. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about casual testing—it was about stepping onto a larger stage. Preparing for it meant refining my deck with more care, studying matchup strategies, and learning how to play through fatigue and nerves.
The memories of Magic PTQs came rushing back, but they felt different now. Back then, tournaments were tied up with ambition and stress. Every loss stung because it meant one step further from a distant dream. With Universus, the stakes were personal rather than external. I wanted to perform well, but I also wanted to savor the experience, to enjoy the thrill of being part of a living game that was still growing.
The Energy of Competition
There’s something irreplaceable about the energy of in-person competition. Sitting across the table, shuffling your deck, and waiting for that first die roll—those moments crackle with anticipation. At Magic Con Vegas, I rediscovered that high in Grand Melee events, but it was Universus that truly carried me back into that world on a weekly basis.
Every match had its rhythm: the opening exchanges where both players tested defenses, the mid-game flurries where attack chains sparked bursts of momentum, the late-game turns where resource management decided outcomes. What struck me most was how interactive it all felt. In Universus, you never sit idle for long; every move demands a response, every decision shapes the tempo.
Comparing Two Worlds of Play
My years in Magic tournaments gave me plenty of perspective. Magic thrives on depth and diversity, with decades of sets feeding into its formats. It has a cultural gravity that no other trading card game can match. But it also comes with barriers—financial, logistical, and emotional. Competing at a high level often meant investing hundreds into a single deck, keeping up with rotations, and traveling constantly.
Universus, by contrast, felt leaner. The buy-in was smaller, the learning curve steep but rewarding, and the crossover themes made it approachable for friends who might never otherwise touch a card game. The mechanics didn’t feel like a clone of anything; they were distinctive enough to carve their own niche while remaining intuitive for veterans of other games.
This balance made it refreshing. Universus wasn’t trying to replace Magic in my life—it was filling a space Magic hadn’t occupied for years. It gave me competition without the crushing weight of investment, creativity without the fear of falling behind, and a sense of fun that matched the intensity of strategy.
The Joy of Teaching Others
Perhaps the most rewarding part of this journey has been sharing it with friends. Over the years, I introduced countless people to Magic, but many of them never stuck with it. Some were daunted by the complexity, others turned off by the expense, and many found it hard to keep pace with a constantly shifting meta.
With Universus, the reaction has been different. The recognizable characters helped draw people in, the affordable preconstructed decks lowered the barrier to entry, and the gameplay kept them engaged. Within weeks, I had friends buying their own decks and even boosters, excited to explore strategies of their own. The fact that half a dozen were already planning to attend the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles prerelease spoke volumes.
There’s something powerful about watching others light up the way I once did, seeing their excitement mirror my own. It reminded me that games are ultimately about connection—not just between players and mechanics, but between people themselves.
Rediscovering Content Creation
Universus also reignited a spark I hadn’t felt in years: the urge to create content. For a long time, the only gaming media I consumed was Rudy’s market insights and Remy’s hilarious parody songs. But suddenly, I found myself watching streams of Regional Championships, analyzing deck techs, and even considering streaming my own matches.
The thought of sharing my journey, not as a polished professional but as someone rediscovering the joy of competition, was exciting. It wasn’t about building an audience or chasing numbers—it was about contributing to a growing community, adding my voice to a chorus of enthusiasm that stretched across tables, stores, and cities.
A Sense of Belonging
Perhaps the most profound shift has been emotional. For years, I drifted on the edges of the TCG world—playing drafts, selling cards, dabbling in new releases, but never fully committing. It always felt temporary, like I was passing through rather than staying.
Universus changed that. Collecting again, building decks, testing strategies, teaching friends, preparing for events—it gave me roots. I felt like part of something again, a community that welcomed me not just as a casual participant but as someone invested in its growth.
The Road Ahead
As I look ahead, I know the future is wide open. I’ll continue to play Magic, especially at prereleases and conventions, but Universus has become my home base. The excitement of upcoming sets, the anticipation of tournaments, and the camaraderie of friends diving in alongside me—these are the things that fuel me now.
This isn’t about replacing old passions; it’s about layering new ones on top. Every shuffle of a deck, every carefully planned combo, every shared laugh across a table reminds me why I fell in love with games in the first place. Universus didn’t just give me a new system to play—it gave me the Early Flame That Never Burned Out
When I look back at the winding path of my gaming life, it’s hard not to see a thread running through every stage. From those first days staring at Cat Warriors as a child, to late nights grinding Faeries against Jund, to the countless limited events I played while traveling—Magic was never just a hobby. It was a companion. Even when I sold collections, drifted away from competitive circuits, or let personal struggles take me elsewhere, the spark never went out.
That’s the thing about games—they have a way of waiting patiently, ready to welcome you back when you’re ready. The cardboard may change, the mechanics evolve, the formats shift, but the essence of sitting across from another person, shuffling up, and diving into battle never loses its magic.
Lessons From the Past
Magic taught me discipline, patience, and resilience. Competitive tournaments sharpened my ability to think critically under pressure, to plan several turns ahead, and to adapt when strategies failed. Limited formats gave me humility, reminding me that even with all the skill in the world, chance always has a say. Traveling with decks in my bag introduced me to strangers who became friends, turning distant cities into places of connection.
But it also showed me the cost of chasing too hard. The financial strain of high-end constructed decks, the pressure of constant competition, and the personal chaos of addiction left scars. For a while, it was easier to let go of collecting, to keep my involvement light and untethered. Magic became a door I opened only occasionally, enough to feel the warmth without being burned.
The Unexpected Arrival of Universus
Then, by chance, Universus arrived in my life. A handful of decks by the register, characters from a show I loved, and the curiosity to ask “what is this?” sparked a chain of events I couldn’t have predicted. Within weeks, I was immersed—building decks, playing tournaments, watching streams, and even encouraging friends to dive in with me.
It wasn’t just about the mechanics, though those were fresh and engaging. It was about timing. After years of floating, I was ready to anchor myself again. Universus gave me that anchor, not by replacing Magic, but by reminding me why I loved trading card games in the first place.
The Balance of Old and New
What makes this moment special is the balance it brings. I don’t need to choose between the worlds I love. Magic will always be part of me—the midnight prereleases, the thrill of cracking packs, the joy of a perfectly executed draft. I’ll still attend conventions, prereleases, and occasional qualifiers. But Universus has claimed a different kind of space. It’s not weighed down by decades of expectations; it’s light, inviting, and full of potential.
Together, they form a complete picture. One is the legacy that shaped me, the other the fresh horizon that excites me. Both remind me that games are not just about competition or collection—they’re about discovery, growth, and joy.
Community at the Core
More than anything, games are about people. From childhood friends in a small town near Mt. Rainier to fellow grinders at PTQs, from Rainbow kids playing sleeveless on the road to new companions at Mox Boarding House—every stage of my journey has been defined by who I played with, not just what I played.
Universus reinforced that truth. Watching friends light up as they tried their first decks, seeing them buy boosters, plan for prereleases, and laugh through matches brought me more satisfaction than any personal victory. It reminded me that games thrive not because of cardboard or rules, but because they create spaces where people connect, compete, and share stories together.
The Joy of Collecting Again
For nearly two decades, I avoided collecting. Every time I built up cards, I sold them off or gave them away. But now, I find myself stacking sealed products, curating singles, and sleeving decks with care. It doesn’t feel like a burden this time—it feels like a gift. Collecting isn’t about chasing value; it’s about preserving excitement, about holding onto tangible pieces of a world that brings me joy.
There’s something deeply satisfying about flipping through a binder and seeing strategies come alive on the page, or pulling a box off the shelf and knowing it holds countless evenings of possibility. After years of treating cards as fleeting, I’ve rediscovered the pleasure of keeping them close.
Why Games Endure
The truth is, games endure because they evolve with us. As children, they spark imagination. As teenagers, they give us identity and challenge. As adults, they offer community, creativity, and even reflection. They become mirrors, showing us who we were, who we are, and who we might become.
Magic showed me the thrill of mastery and the cost of obsession. Universus showed me the power of renewal and the joy of sharing. Together, they remind me that play is not childish—it’s essential. It’s how we learn, connect, and remember what it means to wonder.
Looking Beyond the Horizon
As I prepare for future tournaments, both casual and competitive, I know this is only the beginning of another chapter. I’ll keep sleeving decks, teaching new players, collecting with care, and attending events. I may even branch out into streaming or content creation, not for fame or profit, but to share the excitement with others walking the same path.
What matters most is that I’ve found balance. I don’t need to grind five nights a week to feel fulfilled. I don’t need to spend hundreds to keep up. I simply need to show up, play, and savor the journey. The games themselves will take care of the rest.
Coming Home
In the end, this story isn’t just about leaving and returning. It’s about realizing that I never truly left. The spark was always there, waiting beneath the surface, ready to flare when the moment was right. Universus lit it again, but it was built on years of Magic, on friendships, struggles, victories, and lessons.
Coming back full circle, I see now that games are not just hobbies—they’re lifelines, companions, and chronicles of who we are. They remind us that imagination matters, that competition can build connection, and that joy can be found in the shuffle of a deck.
And so, with sleeves in hand and a community at my side, I step into the next match—excited not just to win, but to play.
Ack, a piece of myself I thought had faded long ago.
A Spark Ignited in Childhood
Every journey has an origin, and mine began in a small town near Mt. Rainier. I was only nine years old when I first stumbled upon the world of trading card games. The moment is etched into memory: standing in front of a display, eyes widening as I picked up a pack of cards and found myself staring at Cat Warriors. To a child, it wasn’t just cardboard. It was a key to a realm where imagination stretched beyond the edges of the table.
At first, I didn’t even know how to play. The rules were mysterious, the art captivating, and the idea that these little rectangles held adventures was enough to keep me hooked. Soon, friends in the neighborhood joined in. We didn’t worry about legality or format—we just shuffled up, placed lands, swung creatures, and laughed through it all. That simplicity planted the seed of a passion that would endure for decades.
The Rise of Competitive Fire
As I grew older, that playful spark evolved into something sharper. By my teenage years, Magic was more than a pastime—it was a proving ground. Decks like Faeries became my weapons, and events like Pro Tour Qualifiers became my battlegrounds.
I still remember sitting across from opponents in dimly lit community centers and convention halls, sleeves worn, dice rattling, and life totals etched on notepads. Facing down Jund decks during their reign of power forced me to refine every decision. Every round tested not only my deck but my patience, resilience, and focus.
Friday Night Magic was my ritual, and travel tournaments became my adventures. In those years, I learned what it meant to grind: hours of testing, nights spent pouring over decklists, mornings of travel, and evenings of victory or heartbreak. Winning felt exhilarating; losing taught me humility. Either way, the game was always teaching, always shaping.
A Period of Drift
But passion can take its toll. By the time Zendikar was released, I felt myself slipping. The constant chase for new sets, the pressure of competitive play, and the financial weight of keeping up began to grind me down. At the same time, personal struggles pulled me away. For nearly two decades, I avoided collecting entirely. I’d draft, play limited formats, and occasionally join prereleases, but I’d sell or give away cards afterward.
It wasn’t that the flame had gone out—it was just quieter. Magic remained part of me, but it no longer consumed me. I floated along the edges of the community, present but not deeply rooted. The world of trading card games became a place I visited rather than lived in.
The Unexpected Spark of Universus
Everything changed the day I walked into Mox Boarding House and noticed some decks near the register. The packaging caught my eye—characters from Star Trek: Lower Decks. Curious, I picked one up and asked, “What’s this?”
That simple question opened a door I didn’t know I needed. The game was Universus, a trading card system I’d never truly explored. Intrigued, I grabbed a couple of decks, brought them home, and within hours, I was shuffling, attacking, and discovering mechanics that felt fresh yet accessible.
What struck me most was the immediacy of the fun. Universus didn’t feel like a clone of anything I had played before. Its tempo, interactivity, and rhythm drew me in quickly. Before long, I was searching for strategy guides, exploring decklists on uvsultra. Online, and planning trips back to the store to grab more cards.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t just playing—I was collecting again.
Building Decks and Testing Theories
The joy of deck-building returned with full force. Starting from preconstructed lists, I tinkered and tailored, learning how every ratio of attacks, foundations, and actions affected the flow. Each adjustment changed not only the math of the deck but the feeling of the game itself.
Unlike Magic, where archetypes often feel rigid and staples are expensive, Universus felt more open. I wasn’t copying top-tier builds; I was experimenting, discovering synergies, and finding strategies that fit my playstyle. Every test game taught me something new, every failed combo showed me a different path forward.
It reminded me of my earliest Magic days, sitting cross-legged on the floor with friends, spreading out cards and dreaming up strategies. That raw creativity was back, but this time with a layer of refinement and experience honed from years of competitive play.