Every board gamer, no matter how disciplined or casual, eventually encounters the same phenomenon: the pile of shame. It is rarely intentional, yet it grows naturally with the passage of time, release cycles, and bursts of enthusiasm. September 2024 was no different. For many hobbyists, it was a month of looking at crowded shelves, unopened boxes, and ambitious plans that didn’t quite materialize. The pile of shame isn’t simply about neglect. It’s about dreams temporarily set aside, boxes full of possibilities still waiting for their first breath of life on the table.
To understand why the pile grows, one must start with the excitement of acquisition. Every new game that arrives represents a door to another world. The box itself often carries the promise of adventure, art, clever design, and shared laughter with friends. Before the shrink wrap is torn, before the first rulebook is opened, a game already occupies a space in the imagination. You picture the group you’ll play with, the conversations it might spark, the evenings it will fill with stories. That mental image is intoxicating enough to justify the purchase, even if reality doesn’t immediately catch up.
September is a peculiar time for reflecting on this cycle. The year feels well underway, with conventions behind and previews for next year just over the horizon. Autumn often brings both anticipation and reckoning. Looking back, players notice how many titles have remained untouched since their purchase months earlier. Some may have been collected as soon as they were released—big titles like The Great Sea, Emberheart, or The Game Makers—only to be carefully placed on a shelf until schedules opened up. Yet schedules rarely do. Time, not interest, is the truest barrier.
In households where space is precious, the pile of shame becomes visible very quickly. Shelves fill, stacks form, corners of rooms take on that familiar look of cardboard towers. Each box sits silently, but its presence is felt. It’s not guilt in the ordinary sense, but a nagging reminder that this treasure hasn’t yet been explored. Many collectors find themselves promising: soon, maybe next week, perhaps after the holidays. And still, months go by.
The truth is, the pile of shame is as much a story of abundance as it is of neglect. The hobby has never been richer in variety, theme, and innovation. September 2024 showcased an almost overwhelming range of titles: abstract strategy, sprawling adventures, narrative-driven experiences, and compact card games. Star Wars: Battle of Hoth promised cinematic drama. SETI: Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence offered scientific imagination. Kingdoms Forlorn dangled epic quests, while Orloj: The Prague Astronomical Clock pulled players toward history and culture. The abundance is exhilarating, but no single person can possibly keep pace with the tide.
Consider how differently people approach their piles. Some carefully catalog every title, making lists of what has been played, what is still waiting, and what must absolutely reach the table before the year ends. They might even establish rules—no buying new games until three older ones have been played. Others take a looser approach, allowing the pile to accumulate as a natural byproduct of collecting. They know which games they’ve ignored, but they don’t track them with precision. For these players, September brings more of a wistful glance than a strict accounting.
Still, there is something universal about the feeling that the pile reflects. It embodies the tension between aspiration and reality. People love the hobby for its ability to connect, entertain, and transport. But life rarely aligns perfectly with those desires. Friends are busy, evenings are short, energy is sometimes too low for complex rulebooks or multi-hour campaigns. The games wait, patient but insistent, reminders of what could be.
Interestingly, the term “shame” may be a misnomer. It carries a humorous edge rather than a serious rebuke. Most players recognize it as a shared experience, almost a badge of belonging. If you have a pile of unplayed games, it means you are part of the community of enthusiasts who are driven by curiosity and passion. September 2024, like many Septembers before it, sparked conversations not of guilt but of camaraderie. People swap stories about which titles linger longest on their shelves, which games they’re saving for the perfect group, or which box has sat unopened for over a year. These stories are often told with laughter, not regret.
The emotional landscape of the pile is surprisingly complex. Pride sits alongside frustration. There is pride in ownership—the satisfaction of curating a personal collection filled with beautiful boxes, intricate designs, and potential adventures. Yet there is frustration too, not at the games themselves, but at the mismatch between desire and time. September magnifies this feeling, because it marks the beginning of the closing stretch of the year. One looks back at January’s resolutions—perhaps to clear the backlog or to give every new purchase a first play within a month—and realizes that many intentions were left unfulfilled.
But maybe that’s where the real lesson lies. The pile of shame is less about what we haven’t done and more about what still awaits us. Each unplayed box is a promise still intact. It’s not wasted, only postponed. When viewed this way, September becomes less of a reckoning and more of a reminder. There is still time to pull a box from the shelf, gather friends, and finally experience the adventure that has been waiting.
Take Container, for example, a title that exists in both classic and modern editions. Some players may have owned the original release since 2007, yet never fully explored it. With the 2026 edition looming, September 2024 might feel like the perfect moment to open the older box and discover what the fuss has always been about. Or consider Wondrous Creatures, released in 2024 itself. Purchased in the excitement of its launch, it might still sit unpunched, waiting for a weekend when the rules can be absorbed and the cards shuffled for the first time.
Every box is an invitation to a story. September encourages us to pause and notice those invitations. To open a game is not only to engage in play, but to honor the intention that first inspired the purchase. Even if the pile remains tall, every step toward the table is meaningful.
Ultimately, the pile of shame reflects the very heart of the hobby. It is built not from indifference but from passion. People do not collect games to neglect them—they collect because each title sparks curiosity and joy. The pile is the overflow of that enthusiasm, a physical manifestation of excitement outpacing opportunity. September 2024 was a reminder that this overflow is not a flaw, but a feature of the hobby.
To stand before a shelf filled with unplayed games is to stand before a horizon of possibilities. There is something comforting about knowing that on any given evening, when time and mood align, a fresh adventure is already waiting. The pile is not a mark of guilt but a reservoir of potential. September only makes us notice it more clearly, offering the chance to shift perspective from what hasn’t been played to what can still be discovered.
In this way, the pile of shame becomes less of a burden and more of a companion. It is always there, patient and forgiving, reminding us that our hobby is not measured only by what we’ve played, but also by what we continue to dream about playing. As September 2024 closed, many players realized that the true meaning of the pile lies not in its weight but in its promise.
The Psychology of Unplayed Games
If the pile of shame is a visible collection of cardboard and ambition, then the real mystery lies beneath the surface: why do we allow it to exist in the first place? September 2024 provides a natural vantage point to reflect on this question, because by this time of year the evidence is clear. Shelves are not empty. Boxes are stacked. Titles like SETI: Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence or Wondrous Creatures have arrived with promise and excitement, yet many sit quietly, unplayed. The psychology of unplayed games is complex, drawing on desire, anticipation, habit, and even identity.
At its core, the act of buying a game is not merely transactional—it is aspirational. When someone adds a title to their collection, they are not just purchasing a rulebook and components; they are purchasing the possibility of future joy. In the imagination, that new game comes alive instantly. You can picture the thrill of uncovering hidden information, the laughter of friends around the table, the tension of a final scoring round. The experience is envisioned before it ever becomes reality. That imagined moment carries weight. For many players, it is as satisfying in the short term as actually playing.
Psychologists sometimes call this “prospective enjoyment.” Humans derive pleasure not only from experiences themselves, but from anticipating them. It’s why a vacation feels exciting months before departure, and why people enjoy daydreaming about plans they may or may not realize. In the same way, unplayed games offer a reservoir of anticipated delight. They sit on shelves not only as objects, but as symbols of evenings yet to come. September 2024 was another month where many hobbyists looked across their collections and felt a mixture of satisfaction and longing—not because the games had failed them, but because they still held their promises unfulfilled.
This helps explain why piles of shame tend to grow rather than shrink. Anticipation is endlessly renewable. A new title is announced, the artwork captivates, the theme feels fresh, the mechanisms intriguing. Pre-orders are placed, or copies are found in local shops. That spark of excitement is addictive in the best sense. And once the game is acquired, the cycle resets: the owner now possesses not only the object, but the hope of playing it soon. The shelf becomes a gallery of future experiences.
The cultural rhythms of the hobby also contribute. Board gaming, much like other creative industries, runs on cycles of hype and release. September 2024 arrived in the wake of summer announcements and ahead of autumn previews. Publishers teased upcoming projects for 2025 and beyond, while games released earlier in the year continued to generate discussion. Each cycle renews the pressure to stay current, to see what everyone else is trying, to explore the newest designs. Yet time is finite. Even the most dedicated players cannot keep pace with the speed of releases. The result is inevitable: unplayed boxes accumulate, not from neglect but from abundance.
Consider the case of thematic games. Star Wars: Battle of Hoth, slated for play in 2025, stirred immediate excitement in September. Fans bought copies eagerly, wanting to secure them before scarcity set in. Yet many of those boxes will sit until the right group gathers. A large-scale cinematic adventure demands not just time, but a certain energy and mood. The anticipation extends far beyond the purchase, sometimes for months. During that time, the game is not forgotten but cherished, held in reserve for its eventual debut.
The psychology of “saving” is also at play. Just as people sometimes keep a favorite bottle of wine for a special occasion, gamers often reserve certain titles for moments they believe will do them justice. A game like Kingdoms Forlorn: Dragons, Devils and Kings is unlikely to be opened casually on a weekday evening. It asks for a gathering of committed players, several hours of focus, and perhaps multiple sessions. Owning such a game creates a kind of patient waiting. It is unplayed not because of disinterest, but because of respect. The pile of shame, in this case, is not a graveyard but a waiting room.
Another factor is the barrier of complexity. Rulebooks can be daunting, especially after a long day of work or in the limited time of a weekend evening. Games like Covenant or The Game Makers might sit longer than intended simply because their learning curves are steep. The owner wants to give them a proper introduction, to avoid the frustration of misplays or the disappointment of a rushed explanation. The delay, then, is an act of care. Yet on the shelf, the box still counts as part of the pile of shame.
Social dynamics further complicate matters. Many games depend on finding the right group of players. A highly competitive economic simulation like Container demands a mindset different from a cooperative narrative like Wondrous Creatures. If one’s circle of friends prefers light games, heavier titles may languish. Conversely, if the group thrives on strategy marathons, smaller filler games might gather dust. The mismatch between game and group is not a fault of either—it is simply a matter of circumstance. September 2024 reminded many players of this truth: collections often outgrow the rhythms of their play groups.
What makes the pile of shame so enduring is that it blends these psychological threads into a single tapestry. It is a product of anticipation, abundance, saving, complexity, and social mismatch. To call it “shame” is to exaggerate with humor, because in truth, the pile represents something deeply positive: hope. It means that a player is still dreaming of future plays, still engaged with the hobby, still invested in what is to come. If the pile disappeared entirely, it might suggest either perfect discipline—or waning interest. Few would prefer the latter.
There is also the simple fact that unplayed games feed identity. Collectors often take pride in the breadth and variety of their shelves. To own Orloj: The Prague Astronomical Clock is to express an appreciation for history. To keep Emberheart or Arcs is to signal a taste for narrative design. These choices reflect personality, even if the boxes remain unopened. The pile becomes part of self-expression, a visual marker of what excites or inspires someone. September 2024 saw social media feeds filled with photos of shelves, not as confessions of guilt but as proud showcases of passion.
Still, one cannot ignore the tension the pile creates. Alongside pride, there is a low hum of frustration. People know that time is slipping by, that new games continue to arrive, that some titles might remain unplayed indefinitely. The psychological weight here is subtle but real. It manifests as a half-joking resolve: I’ll finally play that one next month. Yet even this frustration testifies to the vitality of the hobby. If the games were meaningless, their unplayed status would cause no stir at all. The very fact that people care proves their significance.
Ultimately, the psychology of unplayed games reveals the paradox at the heart of collecting. We buy because we dream, and we delay because life rarely accommodates all of those dreams at once. The pile of shame exists because the hobby is larger than our calendars, richer than our available hours, more varied than any one group of friends could ever fully explore. September 2024 highlighted this paradox once again. For every game played, there are three more waiting. For every intention fulfilled, there are five deferred. Yet the joy lies not only in what we do play, but in knowing that the shelves are full of possibilities.
To stand before a pile of shame is to see one’s hobby in microcosm. It is to see the overflow of excitement, the abundance of creativity, the weight of anticipation. It is a reminder that collecting and playing are not separate, but intertwined. The games are played in imagination long before they are played on the table. That is why the pile grows—and why, for many, it is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be embraced.
As September 2024 passed, hobbyists everywhere looked at their piles with familiar emotions: amusement, pride, perhaps a twinge of guilt. Yet beneath it all was the quiet truth that the pile is not about failure. It is about potential. Every unopened box is a story yet untold, and psychology teaches us that waiting for that story can be just as powerful as experiencing it.
Stories Hidden in the Backlog
The pile of shame is often described in numbers: how many games are unplayed, how many boxes still sit in shrink wrap, how many titles have lingered for years without ever seeing the table. But reducing it to a tally misses something essential. Every unplayed game in September 2024 had a story behind it, a personal history that made it more than just cardboard and plastic. To stand in front of a shelf of unopened boxes is to stand in front of a silent library of intentions. Each title holds meaning, even before its first play.
Take Covenant, for example. For some, it represented loyalty to a favorite designer, bought the moment it was announced because of past positive experiences. For others, it might have been an impulse buy at a convention, swept up in the buzz of the crowd. The box sitting unopened on the shelf is not empty—it carries the memory of the decision to bring it home. That decision is part of the story.
Or consider Bohemians, a 2025 release that appeared on many pre-order lists by September 2024. Even before delivery, it was already part of people’s mental piles of shame. They were looking forward to it, but they also knew that it would probably join the long queue of titles waiting their turn. This demonstrates something curious: a game can join the pile even before it physically arrives, because the pile is as much psychological as it is physical.
Every game has an origin story in a collection. Some were gifts, chosen by friends or family who knew the recipient loved the hobby. A birthday or holiday box might stay unplayed for months, not because it wasn’t wanted, but because the right opportunity didn’t arise. The emotional connection to such games is often stronger, because they symbolize thoughtfulness as much as play. To leave them on the shelf is not neglect but patience. The owner wants to enjoy them at the right time, with the right people, in a way that honors the gift.
Other games were acquired through serendipity. Container, for instance, has existed in multiple editions. Someone might have stumbled across a copy of the older 2007 version at a flea market or secondhand store. The thrill of the find was part of the purchase. That story lingers every time they glance at the box on the shelf. Even if months pass without playing, the narrative of discovery remains attached. September 2024 was full of such stories, where hobbyists could look at their shelves and remember not only the games themselves, but the journeys that brought them there.
Then there are games that symbolize ambition. Titles like Kingdoms Forlorn: Dragons, Devils and Kings are sprawling, ambitious projects, often supported through long crowdfunding campaigns. For years, players anticipated their arrival, reading updates, following development, and imagining what the finished product would bring. When such a game finally arrives, it may not be played immediately. Instead, it occupies a place of honor in the pile. The owner knows that one day, perhaps after gathering the right group, they will dive in. Until then, the unopened box is not a disappointment but a monument to years of anticipation.
The pile of shame also reflects phases in one’s gaming life. A collector may go through a period of fascination with historical simulations, acquiring titles like Orloj: The Prague Astronomical Clock. Later, their tastes may shift toward cooperative adventures or narrative-driven experiences. The earlier acquisitions still remain, waiting quietly, representing the person’s past interests. September 2024 was a reminder of this layered history: a shelf is not only a collection of games but also a timeline of curiosity. Each box marks a chapter of what once captured the imagination.
What’s fascinating is that even unplayed, these games tell stories when shared with others. Visitors to a collection often ask, “Have you played this one yet?” Sometimes the answer is yes, with anecdotes of memorable sessions. Other times the answer is no, followed by an explanation: “I bought it at a convention,” or “I’m waiting for the right group,” or “I just haven’t had time to learn it yet.” Those explanations are stories in themselves, transforming the pile of shame into a conversation starter. September 2024 saw countless such exchanges, both in homes and online, as players compared not only their played favorites but also their still-waiting treasures.
In a way, the pile acts as a diary. Unlike written journals, which record experiences after they happen, a shelf of unplayed games records intentions before they happen. Looking across it, one can remember the excitement of a new release, the hope of introducing it to friends, or the curiosity about how a particular mechanism might work. These memories persist, even without gameplay. The pile of shame is thus less a mark of failure and more a reminder of a person’s evolving relationship with their hobby.
September is an especially powerful time for this reflection. The year is far enough along that one can look back at purchases from earlier months and recall the optimism that accompanied them. Perhaps Wondrous Creatures was bought in spring, with the idea of playing it over summer evenings. Now autumn has arrived, and the box still rests untouched. The story of that game includes not only its content but also the unrealized plans of the owner. There is a bittersweet quality to such stories, but also a sense of continuity. The game is still there, still waiting, still capable of fulfilling the original hope when time allows.
The pile of shame also tells stories of restraint and compromise. Not every game in a collection was bought freely. Some were chosen carefully, after weeks of research, because budgets are real and space is limited. To buy one game often means not buying another. Each box, therefore, represents not only the choice to include it, but the decision to exclude others. When it sits unplayed, it still carries that weight. September 2024 reminded collectors of these trade-offs. Even when a title remained sealed, it was a symbol of choices made, and of the value assigned to it over other possibilities.
There’s another kind of story too: the communal one. Many games in piles of shame are meant for specific groups. Star Wars: Battle of Hoth might have been bought with a gaming buddy in mind who loves that universe. Arcs might have been chosen for a group that thrives on emergent narratives. If those groups haven’t met yet, the boxes wait. The pile becomes a record of social connections as much as personal interest. September highlighted this again, as players reflected not only on what they owned, but on the people they hoped to share it with.
What emerges from all this is a realization: the pile of shame is misnamed. Shame suggests guilt, but these boxes are not failures. They are stories-in-waiting. Every unopened game is a bookmark placed in the future, a reminder of what we still hope to do. In September 2024, the shelves of hobbyists were full of such bookmarks. Some would be opened before the year ended. Others might wait until the following year, or even longer. But their stories were already alive, shaping how their owners thought about the hobby and themselves.
To appreciate the pile is to appreciate these stories. When you look at an unopened copy of Coming of Age, you see not only cardboard, but also the vision of yourself sitting with friends, learning the rules, laughing over mistakes, discovering strategies. That vision may not have happened yet, but it is part of the story nonetheless.
September, then, becomes less a time of guilt and more a time of gratitude. The pile reminds us of our past enthusiasm, our ongoing connections, and our future possibilities. Every box is a narrative fragment, a chapter waiting to be written. The backlog is not an obstacle to overcome, but a library of intentions. And in 2024, as in every year, that library was as meaningful as the plays that had already happened.
Embracing the Pile, September Reflections
By the time September 2024 drew to a close, the familiar conversation about piles of shame had taken on its seasonal rhythm. Players looked at their shelves, counted their unopened boxes, and compared notes with friends or online communities. The cycle was predictable, yet comforting. But what stands out about this ritual is that it reveals not disappointment, but resilience. The pile of shame is not a failure to be fixed; it is a companion in the journey of the hobby, a reminder that enthusiasm often runs ahead of opportunity. To embrace the pile is to embrace the reality of what it means to be a gamer in a world of abundance.
One of the most striking realizations in September is that the pile never truly disappears. Even the most disciplined collectors who vow to “play every game before buying another” eventually find themselves slipping. A surprise release catches their eye, or a friend recommends something irresistible, or an old favorite is reprinted in a shiny new edition. Suddenly the shelf is a little fuller, and the backlog a little longer. Yet rather than seeing this as evidence of weakness, it can be viewed as proof of vitality. A pile of shame means the hobby still excites us, still inspires us to imagine new experiences. Without it, there would only be stagnation.
This perspective reframes how we think about unplayed games. Instead of shame, they represent potential. Each unopened box is a stored possibility, a future evening of laughter, tension, or storytelling waiting to unfold. In September 2024, collectors around the world looked at their shelves and realized that the pile was not a burden but a promise. It meant that no matter how busy life became, there was always something waiting, ready to be explored when time allowed.
There is a quiet joy in this realization. To know that Emberheart is waiting for the right night, or that Orloj: The Prague Astronomical Clock will one day spark discussions about history, is to know that the future holds surprises. The pile keeps curiosity alive. It transforms the ordinary act of looking at a shelf into an exercise in imagination. Which game will finally leave the pile this weekend? Which one will remain a little longer, building anticipation? This uncertainty is not frustrating—it is exciting.
September is also a natural time for planning. As the year edges toward its final months, many hobbyists take stock not only of what they have played but of what they still want to play before the year ends. The pile becomes a tool for prioritization. Perhaps Wondrous Creatures will be the family game over the holidays. Maybe Covenant will be the next title taught to the game group. Or Star Wars: Battle of Hoth might be reserved for a New Year’s gathering. These decisions transform the pile from a static backlog into a dynamic roadmap.
But the pile does more than shape future plans; it also teaches patience. Modern culture often prizes instant gratification. We buy, we consume, we move on. The pile of shame disrupts this cycle. It asks us to wait, to savor anticipation, to recognize that joy is not diminished by delay. Owning Kingdoms Forlorn: Dragons, Devils and Kings but not playing it immediately is not a loss—it is a lesson in pacing. The game will be just as epic tomorrow, or next month, or next year. In fact, the wait might make it sweeter. September 2024 reminded players of this simple truth: anticipation is a form of enjoyment in itself.
The pile also fosters humility. No matter how enthusiastic or knowledgeable one becomes about the hobby, the backlog is a reminder that we cannot do everything. Time is limited, schedules are messy, groups are hard to coordinate. To embrace the pile is to accept these limits gracefully. It is to acknowledge that the hobby is larger than any individual’s capacity, and that this is part of its beauty. There will always be more to discover, more to learn, more to play. September’s reflection on the pile was a reflection on abundance itself.
What is striking is how personal the meaning of the pile becomes. For some, it is a collection of ambitions—epic campaigns and complex strategies waiting for the right group. For others, it is a gallery of gifts, games received from loved ones that hold sentimental value even before being played. Still others see it as a record of their evolving tastes, with titles from different phases of their gaming life lined up side by side. September 2024 showed that the pile is never just about the games. It is about the people who bought them, the contexts in which they were acquired, and the hopes they represent.
In this way, the pile of shame becomes a mirror. Looking at it, one sees not just unopened boxes but the contours of one’s own relationship with the hobby. The unplayed copy of Coming of Age might reflect a season of busyness that left little room for gaming. The untouched Arcs might reflect a hesitation to learn something new during a stressful time. These are not failures but reminders of life’s ebb and flow. The pile records not just gaming intentions but personal histories.
September also encourages a communal dimension to the pile. Many players share photos of their shelves, swapping stories of which games have lingered longest. These exchanges are rarely about judgment. Instead, they are about connection. To admit that a game has sat unopened for a year is to invite others to say, “Me too.” The pile becomes a point of solidarity, a way of acknowledging that no one can keep up with everything, and that this shared struggle is part of the hobby’s charm.
The question, then, is not how to eliminate the pile but how to live with it. Some choose to embrace it as a permanent feature of the hobby, a reservoir of joy that will never run dry. Others set small goals, committing to play one untried game a month or to rotate their shelves so that neglected titles remain visible. However one approaches it, the key is to reframe the narrative. The pile is not shameful. It is hopeful. It speaks of future evenings still to come, of friendships waiting to be deepened, of stories waiting to be told.
Perhaps the best way to understand the pile is to compare it to a personal library. Few book lovers expect to read every volume on their shelves immediately. Part of the pleasure lies in knowing that the books are there, ready to be opened whenever the mood strikes. The pile of shame functions the same way. It is a library of games, each one a potential journey, each one waiting for its moment. September 2024 highlighted this analogy more than ever, as players reflected on their collections not as incomplete tasks but as curated troves of possibility.
As the year moves on from September, the pile remains. It may grow, it may shrink, but it will never vanish completely. And that is not only acceptable—it is desirable. Without it, the hobby would lose one of its most endearing qualities: the sense that there is always something more to look forward to. The pile is not the shadow of the hobby but its light, casting possibilities into the future.
In the end, embracing the pile is about embracing the essence of play itself. Games are not chores to be checked off a list. They are experiences to be savored, surprises to be unwrapped at the right time. The pile simply ensures that those surprises never run out. September 2024 reminded us of this enduring truth. The shelves may be crowded, but they are crowded with joy, with hope, with the promise of many evenings still to come.
And so the story closes not with shame but with gratitude. The pile is not a failure to play. It is a collection of dreams, patiently waiting. To embrace it is to embrace the richness of the hobby, the abundance of creativity, and the enduring capacity of games to inspire. September was not an end but a reminder—that the best stories are sometimes the ones still waiting in the box.
Final Thoughts
Looking back at September 2024 and the conversations around the pile of shame, one truth becomes clear: the backlog is never just about games. It is about time, choice, community, and the way our passions intertwine with everyday life. The unopened boxes on a shelf tell a story of excitement, of hope, of moments yet to come. They remind us that enthusiasm often moves faster than opportunity, and that this imbalance is not a flaw but a feature of being human.
Throughout these reflections, the pile has shifted in meaning. At first, it appeared as a weight, a reminder of what has not been played. But the deeper we looked, the more it transformed into something richer—a symbol of possibility. The pile represents evenings waiting to be shared, friendships waiting to be deepened, challenges waiting to be faced. Far from a source of shame, it is a reservoir of potential.
September offered a chance to pause and consider how we live with abundance. Some choose to treat their pile with discipline, setting small goals to play through neglected titles. Others embrace it as part of the joy of collecting, letting anticipation stretch as long as it needs to. Both approaches are valid, because both are grounded in love for the hobby. There is no “right way” to manage a pile of shame. There is only the way that brings meaning, balance, and delight.
Perhaps what makes the pile so enduring is that it mirrors life itself. None of us will experience everything we hope to. There will always be more books unread, more films unseen, more journeys untaken. Yet that does not diminish the value of what we do experience. It enhances it. The pile of shame reminds us that possibility is endless, that curiosity is alive, that the future always holds something to look forward to.
As we close the chapter on September 2024, the lesson is simple: the pile of shame is not a problem to be solved, but a companion to be embraced. It is a reminder that passion is abundant, that time is precious, and that joy is found not only in the games we play but also in the ones we dream of playing. To live with a pile of shame is to live with hope. And that is something worth celebrating.