There’s something timeless about gathering around a table with friends, each player ready to immerse themselves in a contest of strategy, surprise, and shifting fortunes. The evening began without any of the small setbacks that sometimes delay a gaming night—no issues with the house, no interruptions, just a full group of friends eager to dive into the worlds that awaited them.
Chuck, who had been away from the group for nearly a month, sent a message to check if there was room for him to join. The answer, of course, was yes. With his arrival, the table filled out to five players: Chuck, Jessica, Joe, Winton, and myself. The plan was to start with Kemet, a game that thrives on direct conflict, mythological creatures, and fast-paced battles for dominance in ancient Egypt.
For Chuck, this session carried a sense of nostalgia. He hadn’t touched Kemet since its release, so Joe quickly brought him back up to speed with the rules. Winton claimed the role of starting player and selected his pyramids: a second-level white and a first-level blue, taking the city of Heliopolis as his stronghold. Joe followed by choosing the same white pyramid upgrade but combined it with red, placing himself in Thebes. Chuck, perhaps influenced by Winton’s choice, mirrored his setup and positioned himself in Cairo.
When it was my turn, I took a different route. Opting for aggression rather than balance, I chose a second-level blue and a first-level red pyramid, establishing myself in Memphis. Jessica, going last, leaned more defensive by choosing a second-level blue pyramid and a first-level white, settling in Alexandria. From the start, each city reflected its owner’s temperament—whether defensive, balanced, or bold.
I had a specific plan in mind. The week before, Joe’s combination of powers had worked well, so I decided to borrow from that approach. My first purchase was the Ancestral Elephant, a mythological beast capable of shifting the flow of battle. I wanted to make sure Jessica didn’t grab it before I did. Joe, meanwhile, invested in Godspeed, a red power tile granting him additional movement. That freed me to pursue the Stargate tile at my own pace, knowing he was headed in another direction.
By upgrading my red pyramid to level two, I prepared myself for the acquisition of Open Gates, an essential tile for mobility. With little interest in white power tiles, I focused my early troops on Elephantine, a territory that could provide me with five ankhs per turn if uncontested. Jessica might have been my main rival for that area, but she directed her attention elsewhere. Chuck, on the other hand, repeated a mistake I had made in a previous game: teleporting two warriors into the Valley of the Kings, a vulnerable move. Jessica capitalized quickly, teleporting her troops into the same location and securing a straightforward battle victory point.
The second round unfolded as I had hoped. I secured both Open Gates and Legion, the latter increasing my troop size to a maximum of seven warriors. That meant when the elephant charged, it would not be alone. I continued building my position by upgrading my blue pyramid to level three, aiming for Prescience in the following turn. No opportunity presented itself to invade another city just yet, but the momentum was building.
The real opening came when Joe left a level four pyramid unguarded. Before I could exploit it, Winton made a move. He teleported to an obelisk near Karnak and advanced toward Thebes, blocking my direct path. However, Winton’s maneuver left his own level four pyramid exposed. Opportunity rarely knocks twice in Kemet, and I sent my pachyderms charging into his position.
What followed was a tense back-and-forth as I defended my new territory against Winton’s counterattacks. Prescience became invaluable, letting me peek at his battle cards before making my own choice. For a time, it looked like I could hold him off indefinitely, but attrition is relentless. Eventually, Winton wore my defenses down. It wasn’t a disaster; sometimes letting troops fall is simply part of regrouping for the final surge.
The last round arrived, and this time I would be the last to select turn order. Everyone else, including Joe, opted to go earlier. I thought Joe’s choice to go fourth instead of last might prove costly, but his lead was secure. He had accumulated a commanding 10-point margin. Despite my final effort to seize Karnak, which earned me additional points, I ended at eight while Joe clinched victory with nine.
The remainder of the scoreboard showed just how much of a struggle the others endured. Jessica, Winton, and Chuck battled over scraps of points. In the end, Chuck finished with four, Jessica with three, and Winton also with three but ranked lower due to a tie-breaker that considered battle victories.
The evening was far from over. With Ashley’s arrival, the group grew to six. That number presented a challenge because our next game, Teotihuacan: City of Gods, accommodates only four players. Winton suggested a practical solution: split into two tables of three, one for Teotihuacan and the other for Tzolk’in: The Mayan Calendar. It was an inspired idea. Not only would it solve the numbers problem, but it would also allow everyone to rotate through both games over the coming weeks.
Jessica and Ashley joined Winton at the Tzolk’in table, while Chuck, Joe, and I prepared for Teotihuacan. Chuck once again needed a refresher, and Joe handled the explanation with his usual clarity. This time, though, I paid more attention than I had in past sessions. The setup involved randomizing the room locations, which always adds freshness to the opening strategy.
Out of my four starting location tiles, two caught my eye immediately. One provided starting positions in rooms four and five, conveniently close to each other, and awarded two gold—perfect for buying a key technology early. The other offered a starting technology and some cocoa, placing one of my dice in room eight. Joe, playing blue, began in rooms two, four, and eight. Chuck, with black, started in seven, eight, and nine.
My plan was straightforward. I moved a die into the technology room (five) and purchased the advancement that granted Temple progress whenever I built on the pyramid in room eight. That synergy would be crucial. Next, I aimed for the discount technology on pyramid construction, then the one that granted extra resources when taking actions in rooms two, three, or four. These choices weren’t random—they would weave together into a path of efficient building and steady advancement up the Temple tracks.
Chuck charted his own course. Rather than pursue the pyramid, he focused heavily on the Avenue of the Dead, aiming for points through burial progress. His strategy paid off early; at the end of the first eclipse, he led with 48 points, I trailed with 47, and Joe followed with 40. But leads in Teotihuacan can be fleeting. Joe quickly adjusted, building houses to reduce Chuck’s scoring multipliers.
I, meanwhile, stuck with my original plan. Whenever a worker ascended, I ensured I had the cocoa necessary to double my Temple advancement. The rhythm worked. By the end of the game, the pyramid neared completion, and I had edged Joe on the blue and green Temple tracks. Those victories provided the margin I needed.
The final scores told the story clearly. I finished with 196 points, Joe with 183, and Chuck with 150. The temple bonuses—33 points each for Joe and me—explained the gap between us and Chuck. The synergy of my technologies and temple play had carried me across the finish line.
Looking ahead, Teotihuacan will remain the central game for our Thursday sessions, at least for me. Others may choose between it and Tzolk’in, but the balance struck by rotating play ensures variety while still building mastery. Over the next eight weeks, Teotihuacan will be my focus, a puzzle that continues to reward both planning and adaptation.
Every gaming night has its own rhythm. Sometimes the stories emerge from bold tactical gambits, other times from simple missteps that echo throughout the session. The session with Kemet and Teotihuacan offered both in abundance: aggressive strikes that shifted the balance of power, careful planning rewarded with points at the right moments, and mistakes that became lessons for everyone at the table.
One of the things that stood out most during the Kemet match was how differently each player approached the opening phase. Winton leaned into a defensive posture, combining the strength of a white pyramid with a touch of blue. Joe mirrored that choice but tilted toward aggression by taking red. Chuck, perhaps out of habit from not playing for a while, chose the same setup as Winton. Jessica anchored her start with a combination that emphasized caution. I went the opposite way, deliberately embracing red and blue to ensure a more confrontational role.
This diversity of opening strategies is one of the most appealing aspects of Kemet. No two games feel alike because the pyramid choices ripple through every decision afterward. What a player selects in those early turns defines which powers are within reach, how easily they can move across the map, and how well they can hold their territory. It also highlights the balance between familiarity and experimentation. While Chuck returned to the comfort of familiar choices, I wanted to test the combination that Joe had succeeded with in a previous session. There’s always that tug between sticking to what you know and taking a chance on something new.
The real turning point came when opportunities for aggression appeared. Kemet rewards boldness; sitting back often results in missed chances. That’s why Jessica’s early strike into the Valley of the Kings was so effective. She saw Chuck’s misstep and capitalized immediately, gaining an early victory point. It wasn’t flashy, but it showed how important it is to punish mistakes in a game where points are scarce and hard-fought.
When I eventually unleashed the elephant, it wasn’t just about brute strength. The pachyderm was symbolic of momentum. Moving into Winton’s unguarded position gave me a foothold, but it also shifted the dynamic of the table. Everyone now had to take into account not just my troops but also the looming threat of a massive beast capable of changing the outcome of a battle. Yet even that wasn’t enough to guarantee dominance. Winton counterattacked persistently, wearing down my forces despite my Prescience advantage. It was a reminder that in Kemet, even the strongest positions can collapse under sustained pressure if the rest of the table is alert.
The endgame illustrated another truth: timing is as important as tactics. Going last in the final round gave me the flexibility to see where the others moved first, but it also meant my scoring opportunities were narrower. Joe’s decision to go earlier than expected looked questionable at the time, but his steady accumulation of points throughout the game left him untouchable. He had built a foundation strong enough that turn order didn’t matter. The lesson was clear—victories in Kemet are rarely about dramatic last-minute swings; they are built over rounds of consistent progress.
After the dust of Kemet settled, the group shifted to Teotihuacan: City of Gods, and the tone of play changed. Where Kemet thrives on open conflict and decisive strikes, Teotihuacan demands careful planning, resource management, and timing around the eclipses. The contrast was striking.
From the outset, the different paths chosen by each player showcased the game’s depth. My choice to invest heavily in technologies wasn’t random; it was about creating an engine that could generate long-term advantages. Every step up the Temple tracks represented not just points but also bonuses that would multiply as the game progressed. Building on the pyramid was another key part of the plan. The synergy between discounted construction and Temple advancement allowed me to squeeze efficiency out of every action.
Chuck’s strategy was very different. He focused almost exclusively on the Avenue of the Dead, pushing his workers along that track for points. His early lead after the first eclipse reflected the strength of that path. For a while, it looked like he might pull away from both Joe and me. Yet this is where the beauty of Teotihuacan revealed itself. Joe saw the imbalance and responded not by chasing Chuck directly but by undermining his source of points. Building houses to reduce the Avenue multipliers was a subtle but effective way of countering Chuck’s plan.
This interplay between strategies is what makes Teotihuacan so compelling. Unlike games where players operate in isolation, here every decision reverberates across the table. If one player surges ahead on a particular path, the others must either adapt to exploit weaknesses or find ways to diminish that lead. It’s a constant dance of adjustment, where no single plan is guaranteed to succeed.
The ascension mechanic added another layer to the puzzle. Each time a worker cycled through the track and ascended, it offered not just immediate benefits but also opportunities for timing. I made sure that when my workers ascended, I had the cocoa necessary to double my Temple advancements. This careful alignment of resources and timing kept me climbing steadily, even as Chuck pressed ahead on the Avenue of the Dead and Joe built homes and structures to balance his own scoring engine.
By the time the pyramid neared completion, the outcome hinged on narrow margins. My lead in the blue and green temples was small but decisive. It wasn’t about overwhelming dominance but about precise timing and synergy. The final scores—196 for me, 183 for Joe, and 150 for Chuck—reflected how close the game truly was. Chuck’s strategy had been strong early but faded as Joe and I built more sustainable engines. Joe’s adaptability nearly carried him to victory, but the temple bonuses gave me the edge I needed.
Reflecting on both games together, a broader theme emerged: the importance of adaptability. In Kemet, being too rigid can result in leaving opportunities unclaimed or failing to respond when an opponent makes a bold move. In Teotihuacan, sticking stubbornly to one path can lead to diminishing returns if others find ways to counter it. In both games, success came not from pursuing a single strategy blindly but from recognizing when to shift gears.
There’s also something to be said about the psychological dimension of these games. In Kemet, the threat of a mythological creature can influence player behavior even if it never charges into battle. In Teotihuacan, simply advancing on a temple track can create pressure for others to keep pace, even if the immediate points are small. Much of the enjoyment comes not just from what happens on the board but from how players respond to each other’s decisions.
The social aspect is equally vital. Chuck’s return after a month away added a sense of reunion. His choices, whether repeating past mistakes in Kemet or experimenting with a new path in Teotihuacan, became part of the evening’s narrative. Jessica’s opportunistic strike in Kemet reminded everyone that even a defensive strategy can produce sudden gains. Winton’s decision to split the group for Teotihuacan and Tzolk’in kept the evening flowing smoothly and ensured that no one felt left out.
These interactions remind us why tabletop nights matter. Beyond the points and the mechanics, they create stories—small moments of triumph, frustration, or cleverness that linger long after the pieces are packed away. They also highlight how different games can evoke different energies. Kemet sparks laughter, groans, and dramatic swings. Teotihuacan invites quiet calculation, long pauses, and the satisfaction of building something coherent out of complexity.
As the night wound down, plans for future sessions came into focus. Teotihuacan would take center stage for the next eight weeks, with others rotating into Tzolk’in. This structure balanced depth with variety, giving players the chance to master a system while still enjoying the freshness of a different challenge. The idea of playing each game ten times added a layer of commitment, ensuring that strategies would evolve, mistakes would be corrected, and stories would continue to unfold.
The evening ended with the scores recorded and the pieces returned to their boxes, but the echoes of the decisions remained. The elephant’s charge, the temple climbs, the narrow victories—all of them became part of the group’s shared memory. In the end, it wasn’t about who won or lost but about the richness of the experience. Each game, each round, and each decision contributed to a narrative that would continue the following week when the group gathered again.
Every game night builds its own narrative, a blend of the familiar and the unexpected. What keeps players coming back week after week isn’t simply the thrill of winning or the mechanics themselves but the way decisions ripple across the table, shaping stories that feel unique every time. Looking back on the sessions with Kemet and Teotihuacan, the layers of strategy and human interaction reveal how these games thrive not only as contests but also as shared experiences.
In Kemet, the map itself acts as a stage for drama. Egypt is divided into key territories, each offering resources or strategic value. The cities, each anchored by their pyramids, are both fortresses and springboards for aggression. From the opening round, choices about which pyramids to upgrade set the trajectory for the rest of the game. A red pyramid signals aggression and offensive powers, blue leans into mobility and defensive tricks, while white bolsters economic advantages.
During our session, this dynamic was on full display. Winton and Joe both leaned into white, ensuring early stability. Chuck followed suit, perhaps unconsciously echoing the decisions of others rather than carving his own path. Jessica’s mix of blue and white tilted toward defense. My choice of blue and red was deliberate: I wanted to apply pressure, to take risks, and to shape the table’s tempo through bold moves.
The beauty of Kemet lies in its encouragement of conflict. Unlike many strategy games where turtling behind walls is viable, Kemet rewards direct engagement. Victory points flow from battles won, temples seized, and monuments held. This means hesitation is costly. Jessica’s swift strike into the Valley of the Kings epitomized this principle. Chuck had left his troops vulnerable, and she pounced. It wasn’t personal; it was the correct move in a game that demands initiative.
For my part, the acquisition of the Ancestral Elephant was both symbolic and practical. Mythological creatures add not only strength but also psychological weight. An elephant thundering across the board changes how others plan their moves, even if it never fights. Joe’s decision to pursue mobility with Godspeed reflected his preference for flexibility, but it left the Stargate available to me later. This interplay of choices—mythical beasts, mobility powers, and combat tricks—illustrates how Kemet layers tactical options atop a framework that insists on bold action.
The middle rounds showed how fragile dominance can be. My elephant stormed into Winton’s unprotected pyramid, swinging momentum my way. Yet Winton’s persistence and steady counterattacks drained my position. Even with the Prescience power tile letting me peek at his battle cards, attrition ground me down. In Kemet, no single advantage is insurmountable; the table itself acts as a counterweight. If one player surges ahead, others instinctively push back, whether through direct combat or careful positioning.
By the final round, Joe’s steady accumulation of points made him uncatchable. While I managed to seize Karnak, finishing with eight points to his nine, the outcome was decided earlier. Joe’s choices demonstrated that in Kemet, momentum matters, but so does patience. He hadn’t relied on one dramatic strike but instead built a lead brick by brick, turn by turn. That consistency proved more valuable than my spectacular but fleeting charge.
Switching to Teotihuacan later in the evening shifted the tone entirely. If Kemet is about bold clashes and visible dominance, Teotihuacan is about quiet efficiency, timing, and the steady hum of an engine building beneath the surface. Here, the map isn’t a battlefield but a wheel of opportunities, each room offering a different action. Dice represent workers, and their gradual aging—eventually leading to ascension—creates a rhythm that defines the game.
From the start, I focused on weaving technologies into a long-term plan. The first tile, granting Temple progress with pyramid building, was my cornerstone. Each block placed in room eight would feed two systems at once: the pyramid itself and my ascent up the temples. The discount technology and the extra resource technology added layers of efficiency. With these in place, every action felt maximized.
Joe’s early game looked scattered, but his adaptability proved dangerous. When Chuck surged ahead on the Avenue of the Dead, Joe pivoted. Instead of chasing him directly, he built homes to reduce Chuck’s scoring potential. That quiet counter reflected Teotihuacan’s depth: success isn’t about brute force but about recognizing where small actions can undermine an opponent’s plan.
Chuck’s heavy focus on the Avenue of the Dead gave him a spectacular early lead. By the first eclipse, he was ahead of us both, basking in the glory of 48 points. Yet Teotihuacan is a marathon, not a sprint. His narrow focus left him vulnerable to diminishing returns. Without technologies to multiply efficiency or strong temple positions to supplement his path, his early strength couldn’t sustain itself.
The eclipse scoring system reinforces this long view. Every three rounds, progress is tallied, and momentum shifts. A strategy that looks dominant early can collapse if not supported by balanced play. By the final eclipse, my steady temple advancement and nearly completed pyramid tipped the scales. Chuck’s 150 points looked solid but paled next to Joe’s 183 and my 196.
These outcomes illustrate a fundamental contrast between the two games. Kemet thrives on immediacy. A bold strike, a well-timed teleport, or a sudden creature purchase can swing the game dramatically. Every round is a chance to grab points through conflict. Teotihuacan, on the other hand, rewards foresight. Decisions in the first round echo across the entire game, and efficiency compounds. A single cocoa spent or saved at the right moment can be the difference between progress and stagnation.
Yet both share a common thread: adaptability. In Kemet, the ability to pivot—whether shifting from offense to defense or redirecting aggression toward a vulnerable opponent—is essential. In Teotihuacan, the pivot is quieter but no less important. If one path falters, players must find another, whether through technologies, temple tracks, or pyramid contributions. Stubbornly pursuing one route is rarely rewarded.
Another commonality lies in the psychological dimension. In Kemet, the sight of an elephant or the threat of a teleport creates pressure. In Teotihuacan, pressure manifests through subtle competition: advancing up a temple track forces others to consider whether they can afford to fall behind. In both, players must navigate not only the mechanics but also the mind games unfolding around the table.
What truly elevates these games, however, is the social experience. Chuck’s return after weeks away brought energy and a touch of unpredictability. His mistakes in Kemet gave Jessica opportunities, while his focused strategy in Teotihuacan sparked a contest that defined the game. Jessica herself showed that even defensive strategies can produce bold moves at the right time. Winton’s clever suggestion to split into two tables ensured everyone played, and his persistence in Kemet reminded us that even a losing position can shape the game. Joe’s consistency tied everything together—measured, adaptable, and quietly effective.
The scores recorded at the end of the night were only part of the story. What lingered afterward were the moments of laughter, the groans when plans fell apart, the silent tension as dice were moved or pyramids built. Each decision became part of a larger narrative that stretched beyond a single session. The elephant’s charge, Chuck’s early surge, Joe’s quiet counters—all of it folded into the shared memory of the group.
As we packed away the games, talk turned to the future. Teotihuacan would be the primary focus for the coming weeks, with Tzolk’in providing variety. The idea of playing ten sessions of each promised a deeper exploration. Strategies that seemed obvious now would be tested, refined, and perhaps discarded. Mistakes would become lessons, and lessons would become victories.
There’s satisfaction in that commitment. Playing a game once offers a taste, but playing it repeatedly unlocks layers. In Kemet, the timing of power tile purchases, the sequencing of battles, and the balance between aggression and defense reveal themselves more fully with experience. In Teotihuacan, the rhythm of the wheel, the timing of ascensions, and the layering of technologies become clearer the more one plays.
By the end of the night, it was evident that the games had delivered more than just entertainment. They had offered puzzles to solve, stories to tell, and challenges to revisit. Each session is a step in an ongoing journey, a journey not measured solely in points but in the richness of shared experience. The next weeks promised more battles, more strategies, and more narratives, each building on the foundation laid in these early games.
Every campaign of games, whether stretched across weeks or compressed into a single night, eventually reaches a point where reflection becomes as important as the play itself. It is in these pauses—when the boards are cleared, the miniatures returned to their boxes, and the laughter fades into quiet conversation—that the real value of the experience shines through. The recent sessions of Kemet and Teotihuacan showed how much variety a single evening can contain: on one side, mythological beasts clashing in the sands of Egypt, and on the other, careful craftsmen shaping a city that aspired to touch the heavens.
The contrast between the two titles couldn’t have been more striking. Kemet thrives on immediacy. It demands boldness and punishes hesitation. From the very first round, players must seize opportunities, whether by teleporting into contested regions or racing to secure powerful tiles. Teotihuacan, by comparison, rewards the long view. It asks for patience, for measured planning, and for the foresight to align actions over multiple eclipses. Placing these two games side by side in a single evening highlighted not only their differences but also the flexibility required of players.
For Chuck, the night was something of a homecoming. Having been away for nearly a month, he rejoined the group with enthusiasm, if not with flawless precision. In Kemet, his decision to repeat an earlier mistake by teleporting troops into the Valley of the Kings gave Jessica an opening she could not ignore. Her opportunistic strike became one of the memorable moments of the session, not because it shifted the game dramatically but because it encapsulated Kemet’s lesson: every weakness is an invitation for others to act. Later, in Teotihuacan, Chuck pursued the Avenue of the Dead with determination, achieving an early lead before his narrow focus left him vulnerable to diminishing returns. His journey across both games was a reminder that risk and reward are inseparable; bold choices can pay off, but tunnel vision rarely survives contact with an adaptable opponent.
Jessica’s evening told a different story. Often leaning toward defensive play, she nonetheless demonstrated the value of sharp opportunism. Her strike against Chuck in Kemet illustrated that defense does not mean passivity. In Tzolk’in, which she played on the other table later in the night, she carried her measured style to victory. Her consistency is not about spectacle but about patience—waiting for the right moment, then acting with precision.
Winton, ever the pragmatist, showed his influence beyond the board. His suggestion to split the group into two tables ensured that everyone had a place and that both games could progress without leaving anyone sidelined. In Kemet, he became a thorn in my side, his relentless counterattacks wearing down even the elephant’s momentum. Though his own points remained modest, his actions shaped the flow of the game, proving that influence cannot always be measured on the scoreboard.
Joe’s evening was the most balanced, though not in a quiet way. In Kemet, his steady accumulation of points gave him victory by the narrowest of margins. He never made the flashiest move, but he was always in the right place, taking small advantages that compounded over time. In Teotihuacan, he nearly repeated that success, finishing just behind me thanks to his adaptability. When Chuck surged ahead, Joe calmly adjusted, reducing Chuck’s multipliers and carving out his own steady path. His playstyle exemplifies the idea that consistency is itself a weapon.
As for myself, the evening was one of experimentation and lessons. In Kemet, I leaned into aggression, pairing red and blue pyramids to pressure the board. The elephant charge into Winton’s territory was exhilarating, a move that felt powerful but also precarious. Ultimately, Joe’s patient scoring outpaced me, teaching once again that spectacle alone cannot secure victory. In Teotihuacan, by contrast, my plan unfolded with a clarity that felt rewarding. Technologies interlocked, temple climbs aligned with pyramid building, and timing my ascensions with cocoa in hand allowed me to squeeze every ounce of efficiency from my turns. That synergy carried me to victory, not through drama but through precision.
Stepping back from the details, what emerges most clearly from these sessions is the way games create a tapestry of shared experience. Each player contributed threads: Chuck’s return, Jessica’s opportunism, Winton’s persistence, Joe’s steadiness, my experiments. Together, those threads formed a story that none of us could have crafted alone. This is the essence of tabletop nights—the way individual choices intersect to form narratives larger than any single move.
Another theme that resonated across the evening was adaptability. In Kemet, adaptability took the form of seizing sudden opportunities. Jessica exploited Chuck’s misstep. I redirected aggression when Joe left a pyramid unguarded. Winton adjusted to my invasion with relentless counterplay. In Teotihuacan, adaptability was subtler but no less critical. Joe shifted his plan to undercut Chuck’s Avenue of the Dead points. I aligned technologies in ways that maximized efficiency. Chuck, though locked into his chosen path, revealed by contrast how dangerous inflexibility can be.
The psychological layer of both games also deserves attention. In Kemet, the presence of a mythological creature like the elephant changes the tone of the board. Even when not directly engaged in combat, its looming threat shapes how others act. In Teotihuacan, the pressure is quieter but constant—temple progress, looming eclipses, and the slow march of dice aging toward ascension all exert a kind of mental weight. Each game creates its own form of tension, its own way of reminding players that every decision carries consequences.
From a broader perspective, alternating between these two games in one evening also underscored the richness of variety. Playing only one type of game risks fatigue; switching between the direct conflict of Kemet and the calculated planning of Teotihuacan refreshed the group’s energy. It also highlighted how different skills are tested. Aggression and tactical opportunism shine in one, patience and efficiency in the other. The ability to pivot between those mindsets is itself a kind of skill.
Looking ahead, the group’s commitment to focusing on Teotihuacan for the next several weeks promises to deepen that exploration. Playing a game once reveals its surface; playing it ten times reveals its depth. Already, patterns are emerging: the importance of technologies, the timing of ascensions, the role of cocoa as both fuel and limiter. Future sessions will no doubt uncover further nuances. How often should a player pursue the Avenue of the Dead? When is it better to diversify technologies rather than specialize? At what point does pyramid building shift from opportunity to obligation? These questions will not be answered in theory but in practice, across many evenings of trial, error, and adaptation.
And yet, even as Teotihuacan takes the spotlight, the memory of Kemet lingers. Its battles, its creatures, its sudden shifts of fortune ensure that it will return to the table eventually, bringing with it the laughter and groans that only such direct conflict can produce. Where Teotihuacan challenges the mind with planning, Kemet challenges the will with confrontation. Both are valuable, not just as games but as experiences that test different facets of decision-making.
In the end, what lingers most from the evening is not the scores but the stories. The elephant’s charge, Chuck’s early surge, Jessica’s quiet patience, Winton’s tireless resistance, Joe’s calm accumulation—these are the moments that stay alive in memory. They are why the group continues to gather, week after week, year after year. The games provide the structure, but the people provide the meaning.
A night of games is more than competition. It is reunion after absence, as when Chuck returned. It is laughter at mistakes, as when troops teleported into the wrong place. It is the silent tension of waiting for a die to move or a pyramid block to be placed. It is the satisfaction of a plan executed well and the humility of seeing another player outmaneuver you. It is the shared understanding that the outcome matters less than the experience.
When the pieces were finally packed away, what remained was not silence but anticipation—the knowledge that next week would bring another story, another set of choices, another chance to learn and to laugh. The boards may change, the strategies may evolve, but the essence remains the same: a group of friends around a table, shaping memories together.
Final Thoughts
Looking back across the series, what stands out most is not just the games themselves but the rhythms of people gathering to play them. From the sharp clashes of Kemet to the careful planning of Teotihuacan, each session offered a different lens on strategy, timing, and adaptation. The details of battles, technologies, and scoring paths may fade over time, but the laughter, tension, and shared memories remain vivid.
Every player contributed their own story—Chuck’s bold risks, Jessica’s patient precision, Winton’s relentless resistance, Joe’s calm steadiness, and my own experiments with aggression and planning. These layers of personality shaped the evenings as much as the rules of the games ever did.
Ultimately, that is the lasting truth of tabletop nights: they are not defined by who won or lost but by the collective narrative created at the table. The games are frameworks; the meaning comes from the people who gather, week after week, to explore, compete, and share.
The series closes with one simple realization: victory points may be counted at the end of every game, but the real victories are the friendships, the stories, and the anticipation of the next time the dice will roll, the cards will flip, and the table will come alive again.