Make Me Play My Game Collection What’s Stopping Me

There comes a point in every hobbyist’s life when the excitement of buying something new completely outpaces the actual time and energy to enjoy it. For board gamers, that point is often staring at us from the shelf. Rows of colorful boxes, shrink wrap still tight, components unpunched, rulebooks unread—or read once and quietly set aside with a “maybe later.” The thrill of acquisition is real, but so is the guilt of neglect.

I call this phenomenon my “MMPMG!” ritual—short for Make Me Play My Games! Every so often, I look at my untouched collection and run a poll, half-serious and half-self-deprecating, asking others to help me decide which title finally gets its day on the table. It’s a way of both laughing at myself and actually getting some of these things played. This latest round features five titles, all of which I genuinely wanted at some point, all of which remain tragically ignored. Let’s dig into them, because each comes with its own little story of enthusiasm, hesitation, and procrastination.

The Collector’s Paradox

Before diving into the individual games, it’s worth reflecting on why so many of us end up with piles of unplayed titles in the first place. The psychology behind it isn’t hard to understand. There’s the anticipation of novelty—every new game promises fresh mechanics, exciting themes, and experiences unlike what you’ve already played. That excitement can be so powerful that clicking “back this project” or “add to cart” scratches the itch before the box even arrives.

Then there’s the illusion of abundance. When you buy a game, it doesn’t demand anything right away. It just sits quietly, patiently, waiting for you to open it. Unlike a subscription service that nags with monthly charges or an event ticket that forces a date on your calendar, board games allow indefinite postponement. You own it, therefore you can play it whenever. And that “whenever” has a habit of becoming never.

Layer onto that the reality of life. Work, family, social obligations—sometimes even when you’re in the mood to play, the sheer effort of setup, rules explanation, and teardown can feel daunting. Compared to flipping on a movie or opening a video game, the barrier to entry for tabletop experiences can be surprisingly high.

All of that combines into the collector’s paradox: the more you love the hobby, the more likely you are to amass a backlog that only grows with time.

Chants for the Old Ones – Lovecraft in Cardboard

The first game up for potential rescue from shelf oblivion is Chants for the Old Ones. It’s a deckbuilding and worker-placement hybrid rooted in the Cthulhu Mythos. On paper, it checks a lot of appealing boxes: strategic depth, a thematic tie-in to one of the most well-trodden fictional universes in gaming, and the promise of tension as cultists race to summon ancient horrors while investigators meddle in their affairs.

So why hasn’t it been played? Timing, mostly. When the Kickstarter delivery arrived, life was chaotic. My son had just been born, and suddenly, spending an evening punching cardboard and parsing complex rules didn’t seem like the best use of my energy. The box was opened, glanced at, and quietly set aside. Months later, it’s still sitting there—unpunched, untested, quietly waiting.

There’s also the broader question of theme. Lovecraft’s works have saturated tabletop design over the last two decades. From Arkham Horror to Eldritch Horror to countless spin-offs, the mythos is everywhere. At a certain point, “summon tentacled monsters” becomes more of a genre cliché than a selling point. Add to that the uncomfortable history of Lovecraft’s personal views, and it becomes harder to celebrate the aesthetic without second-guessing what you’re endorsing.

Still, early impressions from others suggest the game has merit. Some players complain that the recall mechanic—the moment when you have to pull workers back and reset—is a bit tedious. Others point out balance issues. Yet there’s a consistent thread of it being atmospheric, even fun, in the right group. Maybe all it needs is for me to finally punch those tokens and give it a fair chance.

Dead Reckoning – The Weight of Too Much Content

Next up is Dead Reckoning, a sprawling pirate-themed adventure that combines card crafting with area control. If Chants for the Old Ones suffered from bad timing, this one fell victim to excess. I didn’t just back the core game—I backed expansions, stretch goals, add-ons, the whole treasure chest. When the avalanche of cardboard arrived, the sheer volume was overwhelming.

Rather than being excited to dive in, I looked at the pile and thought, “Too much.” The setup seemed intimidating, the rulebook long, and the teardown notorious. The box was massive, almost untransportable. Each time I considered bringing it to game night, I imagined the groans of my friends as we spent an hour just getting pieces in place. So instead, it stayed on the shelf.

To be fair, I’ve made some progress. Recently, I separated expansion content from the base game, packed it away, and punched the core box. The first hurdle has been cleared. But even so, the hesitation remains: will it take too long? Will it be worth the effort?

The irony here is that everything I’ve read suggests it’s a solid game, full of clever mechanics and dramatic moments. Card crafting, in particular, allows players to build unique abilities into their crew, which is thematically perfect for the idea of pirates growing in power over a campaign. The exploration aspect sounds adventurous, and the potential for conflict is high. If I can just get over the mental barrier, Dead Reckoning could easily become a centerpiece of my collection. But first, I have to play it.

Veiled Fate – Mystery on the Shelf

Veiled Fate occupies a different corner of the backlog story. Unlike the others, I honestly don’t remember why I bought it in the first place. One day it was on my want list, the next day I saw a copy online, and a few impulsive bids later, it was mine. It’s a social deduction game of hidden identities and manipulation, where players try to influence the outcome of quests without revealing who they really support.

The problem? When I read the rules, my first reaction was, “This sounds dumb.” That may be unfair—sometimes rules text doesn’t convey the excitement of actual play—but it was enough to stop me from pursuing it further. The game went back on the shelf, unopened since.

Yet there’s reason to believe it could surprise me. Social deduction games often read flat but thrive in practice, fueled by group dynamics and bluffing. It’s also reportedly short and easy to teach, which could make it a great option for larger gatherings where heavier titles feel impractical. If anything, this might be the perfect “backup plan” game: quick, accessible, and a potential crowd-pleaser. All it takes is giving it a fair trial.

Each of these games tells a different story of why a title might end up unplayed. Sometimes it’s timing, sometimes it’s volume, sometimes it’s a lack of initial spark. But in each case, the result is the same: a box sitting quietly, waiting for attention it may never get. Running polls and asking others to vote is partly a joke, but it’s also a genuine way to break the deadlock.

There’s something powerful about community accountability. Left to my own devices, I might keep procrastinating forever. But if enough people say, “Play this one,” it creates momentum. Suddenly, it feels like a small responsibility to follow through, if only to report back. And once a game actually gets played, it often breaks the spell. Setup seems easier, the rules clearer, and the fun more accessible than I imagined.

The backlog shrinks not because I stop buying games, but because I finally start playing them.

In the previous installment, I dug into the collector’s paradox and looked closely at three of the neglected titles on my shelf: Chants for the Old Ones, Dead Reckoning, and Veiled Fate. Each one had its own peculiar story of how it ended up unplayed—life interruptions, over-ambitious purchases, or just plain impulse. Now it’s time to continue with the other two candidates from the current round of my “Make Me Play My Games!” poll: Starship Captains and Galaxy Hunters.

These two stand out because they represent something slightly different from the first three. Whereas Chants and Dead Reckoning carried the burden of complexity and Veiled Fate suffered from lack of excitement, these two were bought for their theme and aesthetics. They looked fun. They looked exciting. They looked like the kind of games that would make people say, “Wow, what’s that?” at the table. And yet, both have been left untouched for reasons that are at once mundane and deeply relatable to anyone who collects board games.

Starship Captains – The Lure of Theme and the Weight of Hesitation

If I had to point to a single title in this backlog that screams “fun,” it would be Starship Captains. Everything about it exudes playful energy: the box cover with its colorful cast of characters, the miniatures that look like they belong in a Saturday morning cartoon, and the vibrant board layout that makes you want to jump into space adventures. It’s produced with the kind of polish that instantly attracts attention, especially for those of us who grew up loving science fiction.

So why hasn’t it been played? The answer lies in that uncomfortable space between looking fun and being fun to learn. I vividly remember unboxing it, admiring the components, and then sitting down with the rulebook. And that’s when the enthusiasm hit a wall. Not because the rules were particularly complex, but because they didn’t quite gel with my brain at the time. The mechanics felt a little disjointed when read in isolation, and instead of the effortless sense of adventure I expected, I found myself puzzling over worker rotations, efficiency puzzles, and timing issues.

That moment of friction was enough for me to quietly slide the game back into its box and put it on the shelf with a mental note: “Try again later.” Of course, “later” never came.

It’s interesting how often this happens in gaming. A rulebook that doesn’t flow smoothly can make a game feel harder than it actually is. Later, when explained by someone else at a table, the same game might seem intuitive and breezy. But the solitary experience of reading through examples and exceptions can sap all momentum. That’s what happened here. The game might very well be straightforward in practice, but my first impression set a mental barrier I haven’t crossed since.

The Reputation Factor

Adding to the hesitation are the mixed opinions I’ve read and heard. Many players describe Starship Captains as decent but underwhelming. “Pedestrian” is the word that keeps popping up—suggesting that beneath the flashy presentation lies a fairly ordinary pick-up-and-deliver or efficiency-style game. In other words, it looks like “Star Trek meets fun adventure,” but actually plays like “optimize your worker actions in a fairly standard way.”

Now, there’s nothing wrong with that in principle. Not every game needs to reinvent the wheel. But when your shelf is already full of titles competing for precious playtime, a reputation for being merely “fine” can keep a game sidelined indefinitely. Why pull out something that’s okay when you could reach for something proven to be great?

Still, the only way to know for sure is to play it myself. Reviews and impressions are useful, but they’re not definitive. Taste is subjective, and I’ve had plenty of experiences where I enjoyed a game that others dismissed—or disliked a game that was universally praised. Starship Captains might turn out to be exactly the kind of lighthearted romp I’ve been craving without realizing it. Or it might confirm the suspicion that the fun is mostly surface-level. Either way, it deserves to be tested.

Galaxy Hunters – Big Box, Bigger Excuses

If Starship Captains stalled because of a hesitant rulebook read, Galaxy Hunters languishes for a different reason: sheer physical bulk. This is a game that doesn’t just arrive—it invades. I bought the core game, the expansion, and the stretch goal box, which means that instead of one manageable package, I have three oversized boxes filled with components. Even before playing, the first task is sorting through all of it, deciding what belongs in the base setup, and maybe finding a way to condense it into a single container.

That task alone has been enough to keep me from starting. Each time I think about diving into Galaxy Hunters, I imagine hours spent bagging, labeling, and arranging. By the time that mental picture finishes, I’ve already talked myself out of it.

Yet the game itself sounds exciting. At its core, it’s about piloting customizable mechs to battle genetically engineered monstrosities across the galaxy. That premise alone is enough to spark interest. Add in the Euro-style mechanics—resource management, worker placement, strategic upgrading—and it seems like a compelling hybrid. Reports from players suggest it shines most at two players, offering tense duels and efficient pacing. At higher counts, it can drag, but with the right setup, it’s supposed to be rewarding.

So once again, the barrier isn’t the game—it’s me. My reluctance to deal with the logistics has overshadowed the potential fun.

The Curse of the Big Box

The Galaxy Hunters situation highlights another common issue in modern board gaming: the proliferation of oversized games. In the Kickstarter era, bigger often means better in terms of marketing. Stretch goals add content, expansions launch alongside core sets, and deluxe components balloon the size of packages. For backers, it feels like getting more value. For players, it can quickly become a burden.

Large boxes demand storage space, are difficult to transport, and often require sprawling tables just to set up. The very features that make them look impressive in a campaign video can make them intimidating in real life. Unless you have a dedicated gaming room and a group willing to commit to lengthy sessions, these behemoths risk gathering dust.

Galaxy Hunters is a prime example. I don’t doubt that the gameplay is solid. But between sorting three boxes, learning the rules, and arranging a suitable table, it requires an investment of time and energy that’s hard to summon on a regular weeknight. Until I carve out a specific plan—maybe condense the components, maybe schedule a weekend afternoon—it’s likely to remain untouched.

Comparing the Two

While Starship Captains and Galaxy Hunters are very different in theme and mechanics, their fate on my shelf is strikingly similar. Both were purchased with enthusiasm, both looked fantastic upon arrival, and both have sat idle due to relatively small but persistent barriers.

For Starship Captains, the hurdle is conceptual: the rules didn’t click on first read, and lukewarm reputation dampened excitement. For Galaxy Hunters, the hurdle is physical: too many boxes, too much setup, too little time. Neither problem is insurmountable. Both are solvable with a bit of planning and commitment. Yet in practice, they’ve kept the games from being played for months.

This contrast also highlights an important truth: backlog guilt doesn’t come from laziness alone. It comes from the clash between limited resources (time, energy, table space) and unlimited desire (new themes, mechanics, experiences). Choosing which game to play isn’t just about preference—it’s about logistics, mood, and opportunity.

The Role of Community in Breaking the Cycle

This is why I run polls for my backlog. Left to my own devices, I can rationalize endlessly. One game feels too long, another too fiddly, another too lightweight. Each excuse seems reasonable in the moment, but collectively they form a wall that no game can climb. By asking others to weigh in, I introduce accountability and external perspective.

Someone might look at Starship Captains and say, “That sounds like the perfect light filler between heavier games.” Someone else might vouch for Galaxy Hunters, describing it as a hidden gem worth the setup effort. Their enthusiasm helps cut through my hesitation. Suddenly, it’s not just me talking myself out of it—it’s a community encouraging me to give it a shot.

The added benefit is that playing becomes part of a story. Instead of silently shelving a title, I get to say, “Hey, you all voted for this, and here’s how it went.” That narrative gives the playthrough extra weight, turning it into a shared experience even if others aren’t physically at the table.

Toward a Healthier Backlog

The larger question is how to manage a backlog in a way that doesn’t feel overwhelming. One approach is to stop buying new games until the old ones are played. That’s simple in theory and nearly impossible in practice. The hobby thrives on novelty, and resisting the allure of shiny new releases is harder than it sounds.

Another approach is intentional rotation: deliberately setting aside a few games each month to focus on, regardless of whether they’re new, old, or unplayed. By giving yourself a smaller pool, you reduce decision fatigue and increase the chance that neglected titles finally see the table.

For me, the poll system has become a playful but effective strategy. By narrowing down to five candidates and letting others choose, I create both a manageable focus and a sense of obligation. It’s not perfect, but it moves the needle—and that’s often enough.

Owning games is not the same as playing them. That simple truth lies at the heart of many hobbyist experiences. Whether it’s rows of untouched novels on a shelf, a queue of unwatched films, or a Steam library filled with unplayed downloads, the human tendency to collect far more than we consume is well established. Board gaming, with its tactile boxes and alluring artwork, is particularly prone to this phenomenon.

In the first two parts of this series, I explored specific cases from my own collection: games purchased with excitement but never played, for reasons ranging from overwhelming content to inconvenient size to simple timing. But beneath those personal anecdotes lies a universal pattern, shared by hobbyists across the world. This part looks at why backlogs exist, how they grow, and what they reveal about us—not just as gamers, but as people.

The Allure of Acquisition

The first and most obvious reason for backlogs is acquisition itself. Buying something new feels good. Neuroscience confirms it: when we anticipate a reward, dopamine levels rise, giving us a hit of excitement and pleasure. That surge often peaks not at the moment of consumption, but at the moment of purchase. In other words, clicking “buy” can feel more satisfying than actually playing.

This explains why the backlog builds so easily. Once the brain has gotten its reward from acquisition, the urgency to follow through with play diminishes. The game sits on the shelf, untouched, while attention shifts to the next shiny release. It’s a cycle powered not by failure of willpower, but by the natural quirks of human motivation.

Fear of Missing Out

Layered onto the thrill of buying is a cultural force: fear of missing out (FOMO). In the age of crowdfunding campaigns and limited editions, this is particularly acute. A Kickstarter promises exclusive stretch goals, deluxe components, or early access. Retail availability may be uncertain, and secondary market prices often skyrocket. Faced with the possibility of missing out, many hobbyists pledge impulsively, reasoning that it’s better to have the game now—even if it isn’t played for years—than regret it later.

This creates a paradox. People buy games to avoid missing an experience, but in doing so, they create shelves full of experiences that still go unplayed. The fear of future scarcity overwhelms the reality of present abundance.

The Collector Identity

For some, collecting is not just a side effect of gaming—it’s a core part of the hobby. There’s pleasure in curating a library, in arranging boxes, in displaying colorful spines. A shelf of games becomes a visual statement of interests and personality, much like a bookshelf filled with novels or a rack of vinyl records.

In this sense, unplayed games aren’t necessarily failures. They’re part of a collection, a representation of potential experiences rather than actual ones. Just as someone might own dozens of cookbooks but only use a handful, a gamer might own dozens of boxes and only regularly play a few. The rest still hold meaning, even if untouched.

Of course, this perspective can clash with practical realities. Space is limited, money isn’t infinite, and lugging around guilt-inducing piles of unplayed titles can sour the joy of collecting. But it helps explain why backlogs persist even among people who recognize the problem.

Decision Fatigue and Choice Paralysis

Another subtle but powerful factor is decision fatigue. The more options we have, the harder it is to choose. A gamer with two or three titles might easily decide what to play. A gamer with fifty or more might spend half an evening debating, ultimately defaulting to something familiar.

Backlogs thrive in this environment. Faced with too many options, players gravitate toward comfort choices rather than risk something new. Ironically, the games most in need of attention—the unplayed ones—are often the least likely to be picked, because they require extra effort to learn and explain.

This is one reason why polls and challenges work. By narrowing the field to a handful of candidates, they reduce paralysis and create a sense of direction. Instead of fifty possible games, the choice becomes five—or even just one. That makes it easier to take the plunge.

The Weight of Setup

Practical barriers also play a role. Many modern games are ambitious productions with hundreds of pieces, sprawling boards, and thick rulebooks. They look spectacular on the table, but the setup and teardown can consume as much time as actual play.

When deciding how to spend an evening, the mental picture of sorting tokens, shuffling decks, and explaining complex rules can be enough to steer players toward simpler options. This is especially true for people with busy lives, limited free time, or family obligations. A two-hour movie or a quick card game feels manageable. A four-hour epic with twenty minutes of setup feels exhausting before it even begins.

Games like Dead Reckoning or Galaxy Hunters suffer from this perception. Their size and complexity, while impressive, create barriers that push them deeper into the backlog.

Backlog Guilt and Humor

Owning unplayed games often brings with it a peculiar form of guilt. Hobbyists joke about “shelves of shame,” piles of untouched boxes silently accusing their owners. But the guilt is usually mixed with humor. There’s camaraderie in admitting, “I have too many games and not enough time.”

This blend of guilt and humor has become a cultural staple. Online forums and social media groups regularly feature photos of massive collections with captions like, “Will I ever play all these? Probably not.” Instead of hiding backlogs, many gamers celebrate them as a shared quirk of the hobby.

That’s where initiatives like “Make Me Play My Games!” come in. They transform backlog guilt into community entertainment. By turning indecision into a poll, by writing playful posts about neglected titles, hobbyists reframe the problem. Instead of shame, there’s laughter; instead of paralysis, there’s participation.

The Role of Community in Play

Community doesn’t just help with decision-making—it also sustains the hobby. Board games are inherently social, and many titles can’t be played solo. That means a backlog is often tied not just to personal hesitation, but to group dynamics.

Maybe the local group isn’t interested in a certain theme. Maybe schedules don’t align. Maybe someone else already owns the game, and people would rather play their copy. All of these external factors can push a game deeper into the backlog, even when the owner is eager to try it.

On the flip side, community enthusiasm can revive neglected titles. A friend suggesting, “Hey, can you bring that pirate game next time?” might be the nudge needed to finally punch and play Dead Reckoning. Online comments like, “Galaxy Hunters is amazing, give it a shot,” provide encouragement that counters procrastination. The shared nature of gaming makes backlog management a collective process, not just an individual one.

Lessons from Other Hobbies

The phenomenon of the backlog isn’t unique to board gaming. In fact, comparing across hobbies reveals interesting parallels.

Books: The Japanese term tsundoku describes the practice of buying books and letting them pile up unread. Like games, books promise knowledge and adventure, but ownership often replaces the urgency of consumption.
Video Games: Digital storefronts make acquisition effortless, leading to massive libraries of unplayed titles. Sales events like “Steam Summer Sale” encourage bulk buying, further expanding backlogs.
Movies and TV: Streaming services create endless queues. People spend more time scrolling through options than actually watching, mirroring decision fatigue in board gaming.

What these examples show is that the backlog is not a failure—it’s a cultural byproduct of abundance. In a world where entertainment is plentiful and accessible, backlogs are almost inevitable.

Reframing the Backlog

Instead of viewing backlogs purely as problems, it may help to reframe them as opportunities. Each unplayed game is not a burden but a potential adventure waiting for the right moment. The fact that they’re unplayed doesn’t erase their value—it just shifts it into the future.

Backlogs also offer flexibility. They provide options for different moods, groups, and occasions. Having a diverse library means always being prepared, whether the evening calls for a quick filler, a heavy strategy game, or a thematic romp.

Of course, this doesn’t mean neglecting the backlog entirely. It simply means recognizing that owning more than you can play is not inherently bad. The key is to find balance—enjoying the collection without being consumed by guilt.

Turning the Backlog into a Game

One of the cleverest ways to manage a backlog is to gamify it. Instead of seeing it as a pile of neglected titles, treat it as a challenge. Polls, random draws, and personal goals can all turn backlog reduction into a playful process.

Some hobbyists create “10×10 challenges,” aiming to play ten selected games ten times each within a year. Others commit to playing every unplayed title in their collection before buying new ones. Some roll dice to decide what to play next. Each of these methods adds structure, reduces choice paralysis, and creates a sense of achievement.

For me, “Make Me Play My Games!” is my chosen method. By writing about unplayed titles and letting others vote, I transform backlog guilt into a narrative. It becomes less about failure and more about storytelling—a journey through the quirks of ownership, procrastination, and eventual play.

The Joy Beyond the Shelf

Ultimately, the point of all this isn’t just to shrink the backlog. It’s to reconnect with the joy of play. A game on a shelf is potential. A game on the table is reality. The laughter, tension, and shared experience of play are what make the hobby worthwhile.

That’s why it matters to occasionally push past hesitation, sort through the big boxes, and wrestle with the rulebooks. Every time a neglected game finally sees the table, it redeems itself. Even if it turns out mediocre, the act of playing releases it from limbo. It stops being an accusation and becomes a memory.

By the time I launched “Make Me Play My Games!” as a kind of playful cry for help, I thought I was just making a joke. A wink at myself, a confession dressed up as a challenge. Yet the more I wrote about it, the more I realized this wasn’t only about a pile of cardboard sitting untouched on my shelf. It was about the psychology of owning, collecting, avoiding, and eventually—finally—playing.

In this last part, I want to slow down, take a breath, and reflect. What lessons emerge from this backlog journey? What practical steps can hobbyists take to turn guilt into joy, paralysis into action, and ownership into memory? And what does this whole experience say about gaming as a practice, not just a pastime?

The Nature of the Backlog: From Shame to Story

One of the most surprising outcomes of this project has been the way people resonate with the very idea of a backlog. When I first admitted to having dozens of unplayed games, I half-expected judgment. Instead, I found camaraderie. Nearly every hobbyist I talked to said some version of, “Oh, me too. Let me tell you about the giant Kickstarter pile in my closet.”

What once felt like “shelf of shame” language quickly turned into “shelf of opportunity.” The backlog wasn’t proof of failure. It was proof of enthusiasm, proof of curiosity. Every unplayed box represented a future story waiting for the right time.

Reframing the backlog in this way changes everything. It stops being a guilty weight and becomes a narrative thread. Each unplayed game isn’t an accusation—it’s a character waiting to join the tale of my hobby life.

Lessons From the Polls: Choice, Community, and Play

The biggest shift came when I handed control to others. Posting a poll and saying, “Make me play my games!” flipped the whole problem inside out. Instead of agonizing over my choices, I let friends, followers, or fellow hobbyists decide. The poll wasn’t just a tool for narrowing options; it was a communal ritual.

Choice became lighter. Instead of staring at twenty boxes in indecision, I was given one clear answer.
Community became part of the fun. People didn’t just vote; they rooted for their picks, argued passionately, and shared their own experiences with the games.
Play became inevitable. When the results came in, it felt like an obligation—but a joyful one. Someone had handed me a mission, and I couldn’t help but follow through.

The poll transformed backlog guilt into backlog play. And more importantly, it reminded me that this hobby is not solitary. Even when games sit unopened, they’re part of a shared culture, a collective enthusiasm that binds us together.

Barriers Broken: Setup, Rules, and Fear

Of course, polls alone can’t magically remove the barriers that keep games from the table. What they do is force me to confront them.

Setup stops being an excuse. When the group has spoken, I stop seeing the 200 tokens as a burden and start seeing them as part of the ritual of play. Punching, sorting, and shuffling becomes an act of preparation, not procrastination.
Rules stop being intimidating. Instead of endlessly putting off learning a complex rulebook, I sit down and actually read. And once I start, I remember why I love rules in the first place—they’re the blueprint of experiences.
Fear of disappointment shrinks. Every unopened box carries an aura of “What if it’s not as good as I hoped?” But the only way to answer that question is to play. Polls push me to break that seal and find out.

In every case, the act of finally playing has been worth it. Sometimes the game is brilliant. Sometimes it’s average. Sometimes it’s even disappointing. But in every case, it transforms from potential into reality—and that’s infinitely better than being stuck in limbo.

The Strategies That Work

After months of experimenting with backlog management, I’ve started to identify strategies that actually work—not just for me, but for anyone struggling with shelves of unplayed games.

Gamify the backlog. Polls, dice rolls, challenges—whatever turns the process into a game itself. Structure creates momentum.
Lower the barrier. Pre-punch the cardboard. Bag the tokens. Watch a playthrough video before reading the rules. Anything that reduces the initial friction makes it more likely the game will hit the table.
Invite others in. Make backlog-busting a social experience. Announce “Tonight we’re playing something unplayed!” and let the group share in the discovery.
Celebrate progress. Each game played deserves acknowledgment. Post a photo, write a reflection, or mark it off a list. The sense of achievement fuels motivation.
Forgive the rest. Some games may never get played. That’s okay. Selling, trading, or even just admiring them on the shelf can be part of the hobby, too.

None of these strategies are revolutionary. But when applied consistently, they transform the backlog from a nagging source of guilt into a cycle of exploration and joy.

Looking back, I’ve realized this journey wasn’t just about games—it was about me. Each reason for avoiding a game reflected something in my own habits, fears, or tendencies.

My hesitation with big-box games mirrored my anxiety about time and energy.
My avoidance of complex rulebooks reflected a fear of failure or of “wasting” other people’s time.
My tendency to buy games faster than I play them exposed a craving for novelty, for the dopamine hit of acquisition.

Confronting the backlog meant confronting these habits. It meant recognizing that I often chase potential rather than presence. That I sometimes treat the hobby like collecting promises instead of living experiences. And that I can choose, at any time, to slow down and embrace what I already have.

The Bigger Picture: Why We Play

Ultimately, all this loops back to a simple question: why do we play games at all? Not why we buy them, not why we collect them—but why we sit down at the table, shuffle the cards, and roll the dice.

We play because games give us stories. They create laughter, tension, triumph, and defeat. They offer puzzles to solve, worlds to explore, and connections to strengthen. They remind us that joy is not found on a shelf but around a table, not in ownership but in experience.

The backlog, then, is not the enemy. It’s a library of possible futures, a catalog of joys waiting to happen. The trick is simply to open the box and start.

Toward a Healthier Hobby

If I had to sum up the biggest takeaway from “Make Me Play My Games!”, it would be this: the health of the hobby doesn’t come from how many games you own, but from how much joy you create with them.

Owning a hundred games but rarely playing is no more fulfilling than owning ten games and playing them constantly. In fact, the latter often produces deeper, richer experiences. The value isn’t in scale—it’s in presence.

That doesn’t mean we should stop collecting, or that owning unplayed games is bad. It means we should strive for balance. To collect without guilt, but also to play with intention. To remember that the heart of gaming is not the backlog—it’s the people, the stories, and the memories we build.

Final Thoughts

“Make Me Play My Games!” began as a lighthearted experiment, but it ended up being something more. What started as a playful attempt to tackle a backlog revealed deeper truths about how we engage with hobbies, how we make choices, and how we connect with others through play.

The unopened boxes on a shelf aren’t failures—they’re reminders of possibility. Each one represents a future evening of laughter, challenge, or discovery. The trick is not to see them as burdens but as opportunities, waiting for the right moment. That shift in perspective turns guilt into anticipation.

The polls taught me that gaming is rarely a solo act, even when the box sits untouched at home. Inviting others to help decide what I should play reminded me that this hobby thrives on community. People love to share their opinions, cheer for their favorites, and celebrate the results. In a way, the act of choosing became as enjoyable as the act of playing.

More importantly, I learned that joy doesn’t come from ownership—it comes from experience. Collecting games may feed curiosity, but playing them feeds connection. The memories built at the table last longer than the shrink wrap ever will.

Going forward, I want to embrace a simple mantra: play the game. Don’t wait for the perfect moment, don’t overthink the setup, don’t let hesitation win. Open the box, invite others in, and see what unfolds. Sometimes the game will shine, sometimes it won’t—but the act of playing will always be worth it.

In the end, that’s what this whole journey has been about. Not reducing a backlog, not fixing a “problem,” but rediscovering why I fell in love with games in the first place. The stories, the tension, the laughter, the shared moments—those are what matter.

So the next time I glance at my shelf, I won’t see shame or pressure. I’ll see potential. And instead of asking “Why haven’t I played this yet?” I’ll remind myself: “Today’s a good day to start.”