The twentieth time walking into the rhythm of Gen Con carried with it a blend of nostalgia, comfort, and renewed excitement. Living in central Indiana made it easy to attend, but that did not take away from the anticipation that always built up as the days drew near. Only two years had ever been missed—2005, a year marked by the joyful priority of marriage, and 2020, a year the entire world remembers in different tones of stillness and uncertainty. With those exceptions aside, the gathering had become something like a seasonal marker in life, something that defined August with laughter, competition, exploration, and community. Hosting Billy again this year brought an extra layer of familiarity and warmth, for he was more than a guest; he was part of the fabric of tradition. When he arrived Tuesday night, it felt less like welcoming someone new and more like continuing a story already in motion. To celebrate, there was no better ritual than bringing out the co-design, Aseity, and letting it touch the table with the fresh sheen of its prototype for the very first time. Playing a personal creation in that way brings nerves and exhilaration all at once—the desire to see others enjoy it, the cautious awareness of flaws, the urge to tinker even as laughter and competition unfold. The session went well, tweaks were already forming in the mind, and the night carried a creative satisfaction that only grows when shared with trusted friends.
The following morning unfolded at a slower pace, grounded in the small comforts of coffee and conversation. The ritual of preparing chai instead of coffee became its own statement, an acknowledgment of preference, a reminder that convention days are not only about bustling halls but also about grounding rituals. Krista joined in with her own sense of purpose, bringing Gardlings to the table, both as a game to play and as a rehearsal for her upcoming demos. Playing a game in that context is always a unique experience, for one must balance the ordinary rhythm of competition with the awareness that someone is preparing to showcase this to the wider world. She played confidently, and she won handily, which seemed fitting given her familiarity with it. For me, losing at a push-your-luck game was no surprise, for such mechanics often elude my fortunes, but it never diminishes the enjoyment of seeing others excel. The meal that followed was simple—leftover grilled pork chops—but carried the substance of familiarity, a reminder that conventions do not have to be a departure from daily comforts, they can be layered upon them. Jason’s arrival turned the morning into a transition, the shift from home rhythms to convention rhythms, the point when the group began to aim itself downtown toward the start of official festivities.
There was a practical lesson learned from past years, and this year it was put into motion. Selling games at Gen Con is both a ritual and a logistical hurdle. The year before, carrying multiple bags had left me sweating and weary before even stepping into the heart of the convention. This year the strategy was revised: fifteen games only, neatly packed into a backpack and a rolling suitcase. Even with lighter preparation, the line still demanded patience. Yet waiting in such a place does not mean boredom, for it often becomes a reunion ground. Familiar faces emerged—Vinny, Angie, and others—all caught in the same current of preparation and exchange. The irony of the so-called “express” line moving slower than the alternative did not sour the experience, for the act of waiting with others in shared anticipation transformed frustration into conversation. Eventually, the games were dropped off, the weight both literal and figurative lifted, and attention could finally turn to the heart of Wednesday’s tradition: gaming together across from the Downtown Marriott.
The food court across from the Marriott had become its own unofficial landmark, a meeting place not chosen for grandeur but for consistency. Each year it provided tables, familiarity, and space for the kind of gaming that defined the first night of Gen Con. Billy took the role of teacher, pulling out Skora, a title he had remembered I was curious about. In fact, it was the only game he had carried all the way from North Carolina, a small gift of attentiveness that spoke louder than the mechanics of the game itself. We played twice, each session moving quickly through its light structure. Skora was aesthetically pleasing, simple to engage with, but not something that left a lasting mark. Sometimes that is the nature of games—not every title must demand a place in the collection, sometimes they exist as experiences shared in the moment, fading into memory as pleasant but not essential. Hahn arrived, observed the latter half of one play, and opted not to join, his quiet choice echoing the sense that while pleasant, the game did not demand engagement. That too is part of gaming culture, the freedom to choose what resonates and what does not.
Momentum continued with the introduction of Panda Spin, Jason’s teaching project for the weekend. Learning a game directly from a rulebook, without the ease of an experienced guide, always slows the early pace. The first hand took twenty-five minutes, errors weaving themselves into the early turns, but perseverance carried the group forward. By the time the rhythm settled, enjoyment replaced frustration, and Panda Spin revealed itself as something worth revisiting. The art style alone carried charm, but the mechanics promised replayability, the kind of depth that would keep it alive in circles of dedicated gamers. For family gatherings, perhaps it would not fit, but on days devoted to hobbyists and enthusiasts, it seemed destined for the table. Sean’s arrival midway through further enriched the moment, for he was a friend often only seen on this particular Wednesday. Playing with him brought a sense of continuity, as though each convention was stitched together by these yearly encounters. The evening began to take shape, defined not by the titles themselves but by the layers of tradition, laughter, and exploration.
Arrival, Anticipation, and the First Gathering
The twentieth year of attending Gen Con brought with it a flood of memories, emotions, and expectations that seemed to grow stronger with each passing season. There is something unique about returning to a tradition so many times that it becomes stitched into the fabric of personal history. For me, living in central Indiana has always provided the practical ease of access to the convention, yet even that convenience does not fully capture the weight of the experience. Each August, the energy of the convention seems to ripple through the city, transforming streets and hotels into spaces of imagination, play, and discovery. Missing only two years across two decades—once in 2005 to honor a wedding that began a lifelong partnership with my wife, and once in 2020 when the global stillness made travel impossible—serves to highlight just how enduring this ritual has been. Each absence carried its own story, but the return always reaffirmed the significance of the gathering. To mark the twentieth attendance, I felt an added sense of gratitude and anticipation, not merely for the games but for the people, the traditions, and the atmosphere that only Gen Con can provide. Hosting Billy again was a perfect way to begin, for his presence carried familiarity and continuity. He was not simply a visitor from North Carolina; he was someone woven into the narrative of past Gen Cons, someone who added color to the journey, laughter to the moments, and insight to the games. His arrival on Tuesday night set the stage for what would follow, and it felt like opening the first chapter of a long-awaited book.
That first evening together was marked by a kind of creative excitement that felt deeply personal. I had the chance to bring out my co-design, Aseity, and place it on the table with a proper prototype for the very first time. There is something almost ceremonial about seeing a design one has labored over move from abstract sketches and digital frameworks into a tangible, playable reality. The table becomes both laboratory and stage, with friends as both participants and audience. We played, tested the mechanics, and moved through the rhythms of strategy and chance. The game flowed well enough, though I immediately recognized areas for improvement, tweaks that could sharpen the experience and elevate the design. But even those realizations were not discouraging. Instead, they carried the thrill of discovery, the knowledge that creative work is never truly finished but always evolving. Sharing Aseity with Billy and others that night underscored the joy of designing games not only for oneself but for others to experience, interpret, and shape through their play. The laughter, the questions, and even the small hesitations all became part of the living document of the game’s growth. There is no better way to open a convention week than to see one’s own imagination tested among friends, and that Tuesday evening glowed with possibility.
The next morning unfolded at a slower pace, as if deliberately easing us into the intensity that would follow. There is a certain luxury in waking without rush, sipping on coffee or, in my case, chai, while conversation drifts lazily between topics. The rhythm of the day did not demand haste, for the heart of Gen Con had not yet fully begun. Krista joined us, bringing with her both companionship and purpose. She wanted to practice Gardlings, the game she would be demoing at the convention, and so the morning became an unofficial rehearsal ground. Playing under such circumstances adds another layer of depth, for it is not just about winning or losing but about preparing someone else to step into their role as teacher and promoter. Krista played confidently and decisively, and it came as no surprise when she defeated us handily. Push-your-luck mechanics have rarely aligned in my favor, and Gardlings proved no exception. Yet losing in such a game carries little sting, for the fun lies not in mastery but in the thrill of risk-taking. Afterward, we settled into a simple meal of leftover grilled pork chops, a reminder that even during the extravagance of a convention week, the ordinary pleasures of home still hold their place. Jason arrived shortly after, and his presence signaled the shift from casual prelude to formal beginning. Bags were packed, tickets readied, and hearts turned toward downtown, where the pulse of Gen Con was already beating.
One of the lessons learned in past years came to bear that afternoon. Selling games at Gen Con is an opportunity not only to clear shelves and make space but also to contribute to the cycle of gaming culture itself. Last year, my enthusiasm had outpaced my practicality, and I had carried too many bags through the summer heat, arriving drenched in sweat and exhausted before the day had even begun. Determined not to repeat that mistake, I limited myself to fifteen games, neatly arranged in a backpack and a large rolling suitcase. Even so, the process was not swift. Lines stretched, patience was tested, and the so-called “express” lane for those with smaller collections moved slower than the general line. Yet there was something almost communal in that waiting, for I encountered familiar faces—Vinny, Angie, and others—all engaged in the same ritual of passing games from one hand to another, one shelf to another, one story to another. Selling games is not only about transactions; it is about the fluid life of the hobby, where one person’s past enjoyment becomes another’s new adventure. Eventually, the task was complete, the bags lighter, and the day freed from that responsibility. With relief and anticipation mingled together, we turned toward the place that had become our own unofficial pre-convention hall.
The food court across from the Downtown Marriott has, for many years, been more than a convenient place to eat. For our group, it had become a landmark of tradition, a place where the real start of Gen Con happened. Long before the official opening ceremonies or the sprawling exhibition halls, this food court served as the heart of Wednesday gaming. It provided tables, light, and a kind of casual familiarity that allowed us to settle in and begin playing. Billy, ever thoughtful, had brought Skora all the way from North Carolina, remembering my earlier interest. It was the only game he had packed for the trip, and the gesture itself spoke volumes about the bonds of friendship that undergird the hobby. We played it twice, discovering its fast pace and light structure. The game was aesthetically appealing, quick to teach, and easy to enjoy, but ultimately it did not linger in my imagination. Not every game must. Some games are meant to be momentary pleasures, delightful in the instant and then set aside without regret. Hahn arrived during the second play, observed with curiosity, and chose not to join, perhaps sensing that it did not offer the depth he sought. That choice, too, was part of the rhythm of the day, for gaming at its best allows freedom to engage or step back as one chooses.
As the evening drew further on, Jason brought out Panda Spin, a title he would be teaching during the convention. This was no casual play; it was practice, preparation for his role, and we stepped into the game with that awareness. Learning from a rulebook, rather than a practiced teacher, always brings its challenges. The first hand stretched into twenty-five minutes, errors abounded, and the rhythm faltered. Yet perseverance and patience carried us through, and slowly the mechanics began to reveal their charm. Once the flow of the game settled, I found myself genuinely enjoying it. The mechanics carried enough depth to invite return plays, the art carried a playful charm, and the experience carried the promise of a game that would find its place among dedicated players. This was not a title for family gatherings, not something to bring out at Thanksgiving when casual players gathered, but rather something meant for game days among enthusiasts who relished the nuance of mechanics. Sean’s arrival during this session added an extra layer of joy. Seeing him on Wednesdays had become its own small tradition, for the rest of the convention rarely aligned our paths. Playing alongside him again reminded me that conventions are not only about games but also about people, about those rare encounters that occur only once a year yet sustain friendships across time and distance.
The night did not end there, for Brian arrived as we sought something lighter to close the evening. He brought with him Hot Streak, a game filled with zaniness, laughter, and playful energy. Its roll-up board, miniature pieces with expressive eyes, and unpredictable twists made it the perfect capstone for the night. I threw myself into the final round, taking risks with Mum’s betting cards, and to my delight the gamble paid off. She secured the victory, and I secured my own alongside her, a fittingly joyful conclusion to a day filled with games, friends, and laughter. From there, we drifted toward the block party, where the heat of the day still lingered, and the air buzzed with chatter and music. Drinks in hand, we sought out shade, laughing over absurd topics like bearded bagels and hairy hotdogs. Later, we moved to a smaller gathering to support our friend Travis and his new game, Journeys Afar: The Ketsueki. I had playtested it earlier that year, and seeing it again reminded me of the unique creativity that thrives within the community. The game blended sandbox freedom with engine-building depth, a balance that felt fresh and engaging. Meeting new people, catching up with old friends like Nick and his wife, and witnessing another creation come to life rounded out the evening with warmth and satisfaction. By the time we returned home, tired but content, we settled into the comfort of an episode of Stranger Things before bed. The day had been full, the night restorative, and the promise of Gen Con’s first official day lay just ahead.
The First Full Day at the Heart of the Convention
The first official day of Gen Con always feels like stepping into another world. No matter how many times I’ve attended, the moment of walking into the convention center for the opening day still carries an electric charge, a mingling of excitement, chaos, and anticipation. The night before had provided laughter, familiar games, and smaller gatherings, but Thursday morning meant the beginning of the true spectacle. The streets of downtown Indianapolis seemed to hum with energy before the doors even opened, filled with clusters of costumed attendees, rolling carts of games, and long lines of patient fans waiting for registration or the vendor hall’s grand opening. For me, this morning was not just about being there again, but about marking the significance of a twentieth attendance. Each year had its own stories and its own rhythm, but the first day always carried the same ritual of discovery. The air smelled faintly of coffee from nearby shops mixing with the scent of fried food and convention fare, while the soundscape was a steady mix of chatter, announcements, and the squeak of sneakers on polished floors. Entering that space again felt both familiar and endlessly new, like turning the pages of a book one has read before but always noticing something different with each reread.
The exhibition hall was the natural destination for the morning, a sprawling labyrinth of booths, displays, and excitement that could easily swallow hours without notice. Stepping inside felt like entering a city unto itself, one built entirely around imagination and play. Vendors were setting up elaborate displays of new releases, indie creators were standing proudly by their first projects, and attendees surged forward with bags ready to be filled. For me, wandering the hall is both exploration and education. Each booth represents not only a product but also a story—designers who labored for months or years to bring their visions to life, publishers navigating the challenges of the industry, and artists pouring themselves into illustrations and aesthetics that give games their soul. I lingered at several smaller booths, drawn less by the noise of the big names and more by the quiet pride of independent creators. Their games may not carry the flash of towering displays or giant banners, but often they held the spark of creativity that made me want to sit down and learn. Billy walked alongside me, his own curiosity guiding him toward certain titles, and the conversations we had as we explored felt like an extension of the friendship that had carried across so many conventions. Each new game was not just a product to evaluate but a story to imagine at the table, a possibility waiting for its chance to be played.
By midday, the hall’s intensity made it clear that breaks were essential. The body tires from the constant walking, the eyes blur from taking in so much detail, and the mind begins to crave the slower rhythm of actual play. Lunch became its own ritual, an opportunity not just to refuel but to regroup, to share discoveries and impressions. At the table, we pulled out one of the smaller purchases made earlier in the morning and gave it a try, the clatter of dice and shuffle of cards a comforting contrast to the bustle of the exhibition hall. Playing in such a setting is different from playing at home or even in the food court the night before. The background noise of thousands of people carries into every corner, yet instead of distraction, it becomes part of the experience, a reminder that each table is a single thread in a vast tapestry of play happening all around. Every time I looked up, I saw clusters of players huddled over maps, moving miniatures with intensity, or teaching newcomers with patient smiles. Gen Con thrives on that contrast—the spectacle of the hall and the intimacy of a game shared between a few friends.
The afternoon carried with it the rhythm of scheduled events, those moments when playtime is not spontaneous but anticipated, reserved weeks or months in advance. For this year, we had planned to sit in on a few sessions that promised both entertainment and learning. Workshops on game design always drew me in, for while I came to Gen Con as a player, I also came as a creator. Listening to other designers discuss their processes, their struggles, and their triumphs reminded me that Aseity was not an isolated project but part of a larger conversation. The notes I took were messy and hurried, but they captured sparks of inspiration—ways to refine mechanics, approaches to theme, strategies for playtesting more effectively. It is in those moments, surrounded by others who share the same creative hunger, that the boundaries between professional and amateur blur. We are all learners, all trying to find the balance between vision and execution. Afterward, we shifted to more casual events, playtesting a new card game and then trying out a prototype that one publisher was showcasing. These sessions were not always polished, but the rawness of them carried its own excitement. There is something special about knowing you are among the first to experience a game, that your feedback might influence its future, and that the laughter or frustration you feel could shape the next round of development.
As evening approached, the tone of the day shifted once more. The intensity of the exhibition hall and the structure of scheduled events gave way to the looser rhythm of evening gatherings. For us, Thursday night often became about reconnecting with friends we rarely saw outside of Gen Con, those people who had become part of the tradition not because of constant contact but because of the annual reunion. We found ourselves once again around tables, this time with new games pulled from the day’s discoveries. Some were hits, sparking immediate joy and excitement; others fell flat, their mechanics clunky or their pacing uninspiring. Yet even the disappointments carried value, for they became stories to share, lessons to remember, and inside jokes to retell in future years. Laughter came easily, conversation flowed, and the hours stretched later than we expected. The hallways of hotels echoed with similar gatherings, groups huddled around small tables, floor spaces converted into gaming areas, the entire city transformed into one vast play space. It struck me again how Gen Con is not confined to its official boundaries. It spills outward, into lobbies and restaurants and sidewalks, turning Indianapolis into a stage for thousands of overlapping narratives of play.
The night drew us toward another small party, much like the night before but with a different mix of people and games. These intimate gatherings are often where the heart of Gen Con beats the strongest for me. Large events showcase the spectacle, but smaller groups allow for deeper connection. We sat together, not just playing but talking, sharing stories from past conventions, catching up on lives lived between them, and celebrating the creativity that kept bringing us back. At one point, a designer showed us a prototype he had carried carefully in his bag, eager to see it played by new hands. We dove into it with curiosity, offering honest feedback but also encouragement. Watching his eyes light up at small successes reminded me of the previous night with Aseity, when my own creation had sat at the center of the table. There is a shared vulnerability in such moments, and it fosters a kind of camaraderie that transcends the games themselves. These are the memories that linger long after the rules are forgotten.
By the time we returned home that night, exhaustion settled in with the satisfaction of a day well spent. The feet ached from walking, the voice rasped from talking over the crowd, and the mind buzzed with the whirlwind of impressions. Yet amid the fatigue was a sense of fulfillment, the knowledge that the first day had delivered everything it promised and more. We had seen the grandeur of the exhibition hall, discovered new games, supported creators, and shared laughter with friends. Settling once again into the comfort of home, we unwound with quiet conversation and the simple familiarity of a television episode before bed. The anticipation for the days ahead remained strong, but it was tempered now by the contentment of knowing that whatever came next would build upon a foundation already rich with memory. In the stillness of the night, I reflected on the arc of the day and the arc of the twenty years that had led me here, and I felt grateful for the chance to step once more into this extraordinary gathering.
Deep Into the Flow of Gen Con
The second full day of Gen Con always feels different from the first, as though the city itself has settled into the rhythm of the convention and every participant has found their stride. The nervous energy of opening day, with its long lines and sensory overload, gives way to a more grounded excitement. By Friday morning, I felt as though I had been living inside the convention world for much longer than a day. The streets around the convention center buzzed with costumed attendees, groups hustling to scheduled events, and gamers comparing early purchases from the exhibition hall. For me, the day began again with the comforting ritual of coffee and chai, grounding myself before the whirlwind ahead. There was something profoundly satisfying about waking up knowing that the day would be full of discovery, not only in terms of games but in terms of encounters, conversations, and experiences that could never quite be planned. Friday had always been my favorite day of the convention, because it was here that spontaneity thrived most. By then, the rush to see the latest releases had mellowed, the pressure to attend scheduled events had softened, and the doors to unstructured playtime opened wide.
Once we reached the convention center, the day unfolded into a blend of wandering and anchoring. The exhibition hall still beckoned, but the urgency to scour every aisle was gone. Instead, I found myself gravitating toward areas I had overlooked the day before. Indie publishers occupied quieter corners, and in those spaces I found some of the most heartfelt conversations of the weekend. Designers stood by their tables, hopeful yet humble, eager to explain their creations to anyone who paused long enough to ask. There is a vulnerability in putting one’s game into the public eye, and I could see in their faces the same mix of anticipation and fear that I had felt when presenting Aseity. I lingered at these booths, asking questions not only about rules and mechanics but about inspiration, themes, and journeys. Each conversation reminded me that behind every box, every deck of cards, every miniature sculpt, there was a human story. Purchasing a small game from one such booth felt less like a transaction and more like supporting a dream. Billy, too, found himself caught in the web of enthusiasm, occasionally nudging me toward something he knew I might like. We moved slowly through the hall, savoring rather than rushing, and in doing so discovered gems we might have otherwise missed.
By midday, our group reassembled for another round of play. Friday lunches often became longer affairs, not only to rest tired feet but also to carve out space for new games to hit the table. We pulled out one of the lighter titles, something easy to learn and faster to play, and found ourselves laughing more than strategizing. That is one of the underrated joys of Gen Con—amid the heavy eurogames and sprawling campaigns, there is a place for silliness, for games that exist solely to generate laughter and camaraderie. The food court tables, though crowded and noisy, became little sanctuaries where we could carve out our own pocket of fun amid the chaos. Other attendees walked by, sometimes pausing to watch for a moment, and occasionally asking about the game we were playing. The hobby thrives on such moments of shared curiosity, where strangers become fellow travelers on a journey of play. After lunch, we drifted back into the current of the convention, some of us heading toward scheduled events, others wandering freely, but always with the understanding that we would reconvene later.
One of the highlights of Friday came in the form of a panel on the evolution of board gaming over the last two decades. Sitting there, listening to designers and publishers reflect on the changes in mechanics, themes, and audience, I could not help but draw parallels to my own journey of attending Gen Con for twenty years. When I first began attending, the hobby was smaller, the community tighter, and the mainstream awareness far more limited. Now, board games had become cultural phenomena, with crossover into television, film, and digital spaces. The panelists spoke of crowdfunding, of rising production costs, of the tension between innovation and marketability. For me, it was both enlightening and sobering. I felt pride at seeing how far the hobby had come, yet also concern at the challenges creators face in a crowded marketplace. My notebook filled quickly with scribbled thoughts, many of them connected to my own design projects. The dialogue reminded me that every choice in a game carries weight, not only in terms of player enjoyment but also in terms of survival in an industry that has grown both vibrant and demanding. Leaving the panel, I felt invigorated, reminded that being a designer, even on a small scale, connected me to a larger movement shaping the culture of play.
The evening unfolded in its own rhythm, one shaped less by schedules and more by relationships. We found ourselves invited to a private game night hosted by a friend of a friend, one of those gatherings that only happen because of the intersecting webs of convention friendships. There, in a hotel ballroom repurposed with tables and snacks, we encountered a mix of familiar faces and complete strangers. Within minutes, strangers became companions, bonded by the simple act of shuffling cards and rolling dice. The game of choice was a cooperative dungeon crawler, sprawling across the table with miniatures, tiles, and cards spilling in every direction. It was the kind of game that demanded hours, but also the kind that drew everyone together in shared purpose. I found myself strategizing with people I had met only minutes before, our voices rising in excitement as we overcame challenges and groaning together when luck turned against us. These were the moments that defined Gen Con for me—moments where the boundaries of friendship blurred, and the joy of gaming created instant community. We played until well past midnight, laughter echoing through the room even as fatigue set in, and when we finally packed up the game, there was a sense of satisfaction that lingered long after the pieces returned to their boxes.
As we left the gathering and walked back through the city streets, I felt the weight of the day settle in. My feet were sore, my mind brimming with impressions, my voice hoarse from conversation. Yet exhaustion at Gen Con is never the same as exhaustion elsewhere. It is a badge of honor, a reminder that every ounce of energy has been spent on something joyful, creative, and communal. The city around us still hummed with activity, lights from hotel lobbies glowing warmly as gamers inside carried on their own late-night sessions. It struck me again how Gen Con transforms Indianapolis into a temporary village, a place where thousands of stories intersect, overlap, and diverge, all connected by the shared love of games. Returning home that night, we once again wound down with quiet conversation, reflecting on the highlights of the day. I thought about the indie designers I had spoken with, the panelists whose insights had sparked ideas, the strangers who had become allies in a dungeon crawl, and I felt a deep sense of gratitude. Twenty years of attending had not dulled the magic; if anything, it had deepened it. The games, the people, the stories—they all blended together into a mosaic that felt both personal and universal. Lying in bed, tired but content, I knew that Saturday, with all its chaos and promise, was still waiting ahead.
Conclusion
As the final day of Gen Con arrived, I found myself both full and wistful, knowing that the whirlwind of gaming, friendship, and discovery was about to slow and eventually return to the rhythms of everyday life. The weekend had been a blur of prototypes and polished releases, late-night laughter and quiet conversations, the rekindling of old traditions and the forging of new connections. In many ways, it felt like closing a circle that had begun two decades earlier, when I first walked into the convention hall wide-eyed and eager, unaware of how much this gathering would shape my life. Now, twenty years in, I carried not only memories of this particular year but also echoes of all the years before, layered like pages in a well-worn book. Each moment—whether teaching a game to a friend, standing in line with fellow enthusiasts, or sharing chai on a slow morning—became part of a tapestry woven from countless Gen Con experiences, bound together by a love of games and the people who play them.
The conclusion of the convention never feels like an ending in the traditional sense; rather, it feels like a pause in an ongoing story. Games purchased at the exhibition hall will find their way to tables back home. Friendships renewed at the convention will continue across distance, sustained through messages, video calls, and the promise of meeting again next year. Ideas sparked by panels, prototypes, or casual conversations will grow in notebooks and design files long after the lights of the convention center fade. Even the exhaustion, the sore feet and strained voices, carry forward as reminders that the time was well spent. What lingers most, however, is the sense of belonging. For a few days each year, Indianapolis transforms into a home for gamers of all kinds, and in that space, everyone is invited to share in the joy of play. To be part of that, year after year, is both a privilege and a gift.
Driving away from the city on Monday, bags a little heavier with games and my heart a little fuller with memories, I thought of how Gen Con continues to evolve. The games will change, the exhibitors will shift, and new generations of attendees will arrive with their own sense of wonder. Yet at its core, the convention remains what it has always been: a celebration of imagination, creativity, and community. My 20th year was not simply about the games I played or the events I attended. It was about the people who shared the experience with me, from lifelong friends like Billy to new acquaintances met across a table. It was about continuity—the comfort of traditions like the Wednesday food court games—and about surprise, the joy of discovering something unexpected. It was about remembering that even in the busiest, most crowded spaces, moments of connection are always waiting.
Looking back now, what stands out most clearly is how Gen Con manages to make the ordinary extraordinary. Drinking coffee becomes a ritual of anticipation. Teaching a friend a game becomes an act of trust and joy. Waiting in line becomes an opportunity to catch up with old friends or make new ones. Even the exhaustion becomes a badge of shared experience. This alchemy of turning the everyday into the unforgettable is why Gen Con endures, why it continues to draw me back year after year, and why, even after twenty years, it still feels fresh. It is not simply about games; it is about what games create: laughter, challenge, cooperation, reflection, and above all, connection.
So as the lights of this year’s convention fade into memory, I find myself already looking forward to the next. There will be new games, new designs, new panels, and new friends. There will also be the comfort of returning traditions, of gathering again with familiar faces to share in something bigger than any one of us. That anticipation, that sense of being part of an ongoing story, is what makes Gen Con not just a convention, but a milestone in the lives of those who attend. My 20th year was a reminder of why I started going in the first place and why I will continue to go for as long as I am able. It was not just a trip, not just a weekend, but a celebration of the enduring magic of games and the community that surrounds them. And with that, I close this chapter, grateful for the memories made, eager for the ones still to come.