When I first encountered Paper App Dungeon, it was through a demo that immediately caught my attention because it seemed to promise something playful, quick, and unusual, mixing the tactile feel of pen and paper with the mechanical appeal of dice and decisions. Yet, the experience turned out to be far from what I had hoped. The demo session, while initially engaging, quickly unraveled into something that felt shallow and overly constrained, particularly because there were no real opportunities for me to make meaningful choices. Instead of providing a dynamic space where a player could engage with mechanics and strategy, the game fell into a repetitive cycle that became stale faster than anticipated. My greatest frustration, however, stemmed not just from the gameplay but from the design decision that there was no print-and-play option available at the time. For me, someone who appreciates having the chance to laminate, replay, and preserve PnP games, the spiral notebook format of Paper App Dungeon felt like a cage rather than a creative outlet. The lack of adaptability frustrated me, since part of the appeal of PnP is the way players can tweak, upgrade, or protect their games for longevity, but here that flexibility was denied. I remember thinking that this game conceptually could have been interesting if only it allowed for more player agency and a better delivery method, but without those things, it left me cold. Still, curiosity pushed me to stay aware of what Gladden Design would put out next, since even when a game is underwhelming, sometimes later iterations can show growth in design philosophy. What was more, I realized that others were responding differently, with some appreciating aspects of the format I had dismissed, so I began to wonder if perhaps my critical stance was too harsh or if the problem lay more in the delivery than in the core idea. Yet, every attempt to return to Paper App Dungeon reaffirmed my original opinion, that it lacked the richness of choice, interaction, and system depth that I believe elevates a game from an activity to an engaging design worth revisiting.
Not long after my initial experience, I learned that Paper App Dungeon and other works from Gladden Design did in fact have print-and-play options available, though they were not highlighted at first glance. This discovery shifted my perception in an important way because it opened up possibilities that I had previously assumed were off the table. Suddenly, the issue of spiral notebooks and lamination no longer seemed like an obstacle, since players could print and adapt the game in a format that suited them. Even more intriguing, I found that the catalog of Gladden Design was not limited to just Paper App Dungeon but included a range of PnP products that built upon or diverged from the initial concept in inventive ways. Some of these later Paper App releases had already begun to receive warmer reception from players who noted that the design lessons from Dungeon had been applied to make new titles smoother, more strategic, and more engaging. This revelation made me realize that my judgment of the studio had been based on a very narrow slice of its work and that dismissing them outright because of one unsatisfying experience would be shortsighted. What I appreciated most was how the PnP format restored a sense of ownership and creativity to the players, something that has always been central to my enjoyment of board games and tabletop experiences. Print-and-play games carry with them a DIY spirit, where the act of printing, cutting, and sometimes even modifying the components becomes part of the ritual of play. When I learned that Gladden Design had embraced this, I understood that the philosophy underpinning their games might align more closely with my own than I had initially assumed. The knowledge that options existed, and that there was more depth to their design catalog than I had realized, encouraged me to look beyond my first impression and keep an open mind about what might come next.
The moment that truly altered my perception came when I encountered Roll for the Goal, a small, free game that could be tried almost instantly without commitment. On the surface, it was a light soccer-themed exercise, simple to set up and quick to play, but what struck me was how much it addressed the frustrations I had with Paper App Dungeon. Instead of a passive experience with little decision-making, Roll for the Goal gave me choices on each turn, choices that mattered. The core mechanic was elegant: you drew a line toward the goal across a dot grid, rolled a die for distance, and when you landed near defenders you had to engage in a contest of rolls against their values. This small structure introduced tension, planning, and the thrill of risk management. Every movement across the grid carried weight, and while the system was lean, it still produced the feeling of overcoming obstacles and finding tactical paths. What was even more significant to me was that this free game proved the designer understood how to balance accessibility with meaningful interaction, even within minimal components. Roll for the Goal may not be a grand, elaborate system, but it solved problems I had previously criticized in Dungeon, namely the lack of choices and the absence of a satisfying conflict resolution system. Here, in a stripped-down exercise, those missing elements were present, and that alone was enough to make me reconsider my earlier impressions of Gladden Design’s creative approach. I even found myself going back to Paper App Dungeon, just to verify if my critique had been premature. Yet, even after retrying it, I still felt it failed to capture my interest in the way Roll for the Goal did. The contrast between the two games showed me how small design decisions could change the experience entirely and revealed a trajectory of learning and refinement in Tom Brinton’s work.
First Exploration of Paper App Dungeon
When I first came across Paper App Dungeon, it was presented to me as a kind of lightweight experiment that blended the spirit of tabletop dungeon crawls with the simplicity of a notebook and a die. The idea was novel enough to catch my interest, and I remember being curious about how such a minimal setup could still offer the satisfaction of exploration, challenge, and storytelling. The demo promised something accessible, something that could fit in the palm of your hand while still granting the thrill of battling monsters, navigating corridors, and discovering treasures in a dungeon. Yet as soon as I began to play, my initial enthusiasm quickly shifted toward disappointment. The simplicity that had seemed charming at first revealed itself as an oversimplification, stripping away the very qualities that make dungeon crawlers engaging. Instead of navigating meaningful decisions, I felt as though I was simply following a path that had been predetermined, rolling dice without much influence, and marking down results in a way that felt mechanical rather than immersive. It became evident that the design, while clever in its portability, lacked the core dynamic of choice and consequence that I personally associate with the heart of gaming.
What frustrated me more deeply than the mechanics themselves was the realization that the game came bound in a spiral notebook format, with no option to print and play. For someone like me who has long embraced the print-and-play culture, this limitation felt almost like a betrayal of what I value most in compact, indie-style games. The PnP world thrives on flexibility and customization, where players can print components at home, laminate them, and return to them again and again with the knowledge that their creations will last. A spiral notebook, by contrast, felt like a consumable item, fragile and finite, one where each playthrough chipped away at the material itself until nothing was left. Lamination, one of my go-to methods for preserving game sheets, was essentially impossible with this format, making the entire design feel disposable. That clashed with my philosophy as a player, which emphasizes longevity and replayability. I remember sitting with the demo, flipping through the pages, and thinking that I could never truly connect with the game because it refused to give me ownership over its form. The very idea of a PnP is that it empowers the player to bring a game to life, to print, cut, assemble, and even embellish the experience, but Paper App Dungeon closed the door on that dimension, leaving me frustrated from the outset.
I still tried to push through and play several rounds, hoping that perhaps the gameplay would compensate for the format. Sadly, the mechanics only deepened my dissatisfaction. The process of moving through the dungeon was little more than a ritual of rolling dice and noting results, with minimal opportunity for strategic decision-making. There were enemies to face, of course, but the encounters lacked a sense of excitement or tactical depth, boiling down to quick roll-offs that felt arbitrary rather than hard-earned. Dungeon crawlers, in their many forms, usually thrive on resource management, risk-reward decisions, or at least the thrill of uncovering the unknown, but here those elements felt muted or entirely absent. The notebook format promised a portable adventure, but what it delivered was a hollow simulation of one, more akin to filling out a worksheet than embarking on a perilous quest. I found myself wondering how such a promising premise could end up feeling so flat in execution. The tools were all there—a dungeon theme, dice mechanics, and a clever presentation—but without meaningful interactivity, it collapsed into an exercise that failed to ignite the imagination.
The most telling moment of my experience was when I realized I did not want to finish the demo. Normally, even with games that do not quite suit my taste, I finish them at least once to see the arc of play, to understand what the designer intended from start to finish. With Paper App Dungeon, however, I put it aside after a handful of pages because I could already tell what the rest of the game would offer. There was no suspense, no motivation to see what was around the corner, because every page felt like a repetition of the last. I even considered whether I was being unfair, whether my disappointment stemmed from inflated expectations rather than the game itself. Yet when I thought critically, I realized that what I wanted was not extravagant depth but simply the opportunity to make meaningful decisions. I longed for the moment where I would weigh risks, choose paths, or engage in tactical planning, but the game never delivered that moment. It was not that the concept of a notebook dungeon was inherently flawed, but rather that its execution had stripped away the elements that make tabletop gaming feel alive.
Even in my dissatisfaction, I was aware that others might feel differently. Some people praised the accessibility of the format, arguing that it was a perfect introduction for casual players or those who wanted a quick and easy pastime without the complexity of larger games. From that perspective, I could understand the appeal, since not everyone demands the same depth of decision-making or values the same qualities in a game. For them, Paper App Dungeon was a quirky, portable diversion, a way to kill time with a die and a pencil. For me, though, it never rose above being a disposable curiosity, the kind of experience you try once and then shelve indefinitely. I found myself reflecting on how different players evaluate games through different lenses: some prioritize convenience and novelty, while others, like me, prioritize choice and system depth. Recognizing that disparity softened my criticism somewhat, but it did not change the fact that I personally could not connect with the game. It remained, in my eyes, a clever gimmick that had not evolved into a satisfying design.
Still, there was a part of me that held onto the possibility that Paper App Dungeon was not representative of everything Gladden Design had to offer. Sometimes the first step in a creative journey is clumsy, and only through further iterations do designers refine their vision and learn from their mistakes. Even as I closed the notebook in disappointment, I wondered if perhaps the studio would take the lessons of this design and channel them into something richer and more engaging in the future. My curiosity, faint though it was, lingered. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for future projects, hoping that the raw potential I had glimpsed in the concept would one day crystallize into something that resonated with my style of play. I reminded myself that innovation often comes through trial and error, and that judging a body of work by its earliest missteps can be shortsighted.
Ultimately, my first exploration of Paper App Dungeon left me with mixed feelings, a combination of disappointment and faint hope. On one hand, I had experienced a game that seemed to promise adventure but delivered monotony, constrained by its format and stripped of the choices that make games meaningful to me. On the other hand, I recognized that even this failure was a kind of experiment, a stepping stone that might lead to better things. The spiral notebook format might not have worked for me, but the willingness to attempt such a bold idea suggested a creative spirit worth watching. While I put the game aside with little desire to return, I also knew that I had not closed the door entirely. There was still the chance that Gladden Design would surprise me in the future, that they would refine their mechanics, embrace flexibility, and deliver the kind of engaging experiences that I value. In the end, Paper App Dungeon became less of a game to me and more of a reminder of what I seek in play: agency, longevity, and a spark of imagination that keeps me turning the page not out of obligation, but out of genuine curiosity.
Discovery of Print-and-Play Options
When I discovered that Gladden Design actually had print-and-play options available, my perspective on their work began to shift in ways I hadn’t expected. Until then, I had operated under the assumption that Paper App Dungeon was strictly tied to the spiral notebook format, with no possibility of adaptation or customization. That belief had shaped my frustration, because I saw the notebook as a finite object, destined to be consumed and discarded after a handful of plays, with no means of renewal or preservation. Learning that PnP versions existed dismantled that assumption, opening a window to possibilities that aligned far more closely with my own gaming values. Suddenly, the barrier I had thought immovable was gone. The realization that I could print sheets, laminate them, and revisit the game indefinitely reframed the conversation in my mind. It wasn’t just about Paper App Dungeon anymore, but about an entire catalog of works that could potentially embrace the flexibility and creativity that the print-and-play culture represents. The disappointment I had felt began to soften into something more complex, an acknowledgment that perhaps I had judged too quickly and missed the bigger picture.
This discovery also reignited my respect for the ethos of PnP gaming in general, a scene that thrives on the do-it-yourself spirit, where players are not passive consumers but active participants in bringing a design to life. Print-and-play is more than just a format; it is a philosophy of accessibility, where designers can share their creations widely without the costs of mass production, and players can decide how much effort and care they wish to invest in assembling their own copies. In this light, the fact that Gladden Design had embraced PnP options positioned them within a tradition that values creativity, experimentation, and community over rigid commercial constraints. It meant that their games could live beyond the boundaries of a single notebook, extending into the hands of players who prefer to tailor their experiences. I found myself reflecting on how important that flexibility is to me, and how it changes the relationship between designer and audience. When a game is offered as a PnP, it becomes both an object and a collaboration, a meeting point where the designer’s vision and the player’s craft intertwine.
The catalog I began to glimpse from Gladden Design went beyond the one title that had so disappointed me. There were other Paper App designs that had evolved from the Dungeon framework, incorporating new ideas and refining mechanics to address criticisms. Some of these newer entries had already earned praise from players who described them as smoother, more strategic, and more engaging than their predecessor. Reading about these responses piqued my curiosity, because it suggested that the studio was not content to rest on a gimmick but was actively learning from their experiments. The existence of PnP versions made it easier for me to imagine actually trying them, since I could produce copies that suited my preferences without being bound by the notebook format. It felt as though a door that had been firmly closed was now wide open, inviting me to reconsider my stance and to explore the studio’s work with fresh eyes. The shift was subtle but significant: I no longer saw Gladden Design as a one-note curiosity but as a team in dialogue with its audience, responsive to feedback and willing to explore new avenues.
Another element that struck me in this phase of discovery was how the PnP option changes the very act of play. When I print a game myself, cut out the pieces, and perhaps even laminate them, I invest a part of myself into the experience before the first die is rolled or the first decision is made. That sense of ownership enhances the connection I feel to the design, because it isn’t just a product delivered to me—it’s something I’ve built and shaped with my own hands. For someone like me, who values longevity and replayability, this process makes a world of difference. It allows me to return to the game months or years later, with the assurance that the materials I prepared will still be intact, still ready to support another session of exploration. In contrast, the spiral notebook format of Paper App Dungeon felt transient, as though it was asking me to use it up and move on. The knowledge that PnP options were available removed that transience, restoring the possibility of continuity, and with it, the potential for deeper engagement.
What also became clear was that my earlier critique of Paper App Dungeon had been too narrowly focused on its most visible presentation, without considering the wider context of Gladden Design’s philosophy. By offering PnP games, they were embracing a design philosophy that welcomed players into the process, inviting them to adapt, preserve, and engage with the material in ways that suited their own needs. That gesture signaled respect for the audience, an understanding that players come with different preferences and different ways of interacting with games. While the spiral notebook might appeal to some for its portability and novelty, the PnP format extended an alternative to those like me who valued customization and durability. In this way, Gladden Design was not imposing a single vision but offering multiple entry points, each capable of serving a different audience. Recognizing this multiplicity helped me step back from my initial frustration and appreciate that the studio was more versatile and thoughtful than I had given them credit for.
The discovery also made me reflect more broadly on the evolving landscape of independent game design. In an industry where mass-produced boxes dominate store shelves, the rise of PnP as a viable format has empowered smaller creators to reach audiences that might otherwise have been inaccessible. It has democratized design, enabling experiments that do not require the resources of a large publisher to see the light of day. Gladden Design, by offering PnP versions, was participating in that democratization, adding their voice to a chorus of independent creators who value accessibility and experimentation over scale. That recognition deepened my interest, because I saw in their work not just individual games but a contribution to a larger movement, one that resonates strongly with my own values as a player. In supporting PnP, I felt as though I was also supporting the spirit of creativity and community that sustains this corner of gaming culture.
By the time I had fully absorbed the implications of Gladden Design’s PnP offerings, my perspective had changed from frustration to cautious optimism. I still did not feel compelled to return to Paper App Dungeon itself, but I no longer saw it as the defining feature of the studio. Instead, I understood it as an early experiment, one that had limitations but also opened the door to further exploration. The existence of PnP options reassured me that my preferences as a player had a place within their ecosystem, and that the qualities I value—flexibility, longevity, and choice—might well be found in their other titles. It was a moment of recalibration, a shift in perspective that reminded me of the importance of keeping an open mind. Dismissing a creator too quickly can blind us to their potential, and while not every design will align with my tastes, the willingness to experiment and adapt is a quality I deeply respect. In this sense, discovering the PnP options was not just about uncovering new formats but about rediscovering the spirit of possibility that first drew me to gaming in the first place.
What I also realized during this stage was how much the print-and-play availability redefined the relationship between player and designer. In the traditional model of publishing, a designer creates, a company prints, and a consumer buys and plays, with very little interaction beyond the transaction. PnP games blur those lines because the player is responsible for manifesting the design into physical form. That act of creation fosters a sense of collaboration, as though I were working alongside the designer to bring their vision to life. When I cut out the sheets, choose the thickness of the paper, or decide whether to laminate, I am putting my own stamp on the game. That small but significant involvement deepens my investment and strengthens the connection I feel to the design. With Gladden Design offering their work in this format, I could finally view them not as distant creators but as partners in an ongoing dialogue about what makes a game meaningful. Even if I never returned to Paper App Dungeon, I found myself curious about how these other PnP offerings might invite me into that partnership.
Perhaps the most lasting impact of discovering the PnP side of Gladden Design was the way it reminded me that games are living things, evolving through iteration, adaptation, and feedback. My initial dismissal of Paper App Dungeon had been grounded in the sense that it was a closed book, literally and figuratively, an experiment that had failed to invite me in. But once I saw the larger body of work and the multiple formats available, I realized that it was only one step in a longer journey, one piece of an evolving conversation between designer and audience. That realization was humbling, because it forced me to acknowledge how easily one can mistake a single encounter for a definitive judgment. The PnP options made me see that the work of Gladden Design was not fixed in the past but reaching toward the future, and that the best way to understand it was not to linger on one disappointment but to remain open to what might come next.
The Appeal of Roll for the Goal
When I first encountered Roll for the Goal, it seemed like little more than a small experiment, a free game meant to be played quickly without much weight or expectation. At a glance, it appeared almost too simple to command my attention, a soccer-themed activity where you roll dice and draw lines on a grid. Yet as soon as I began playing, I realized there was more to it than the surface suggested. The simplicity was deceptive because beneath it lay an elegance of design that immediately stood in contrast to my earlier experiences with Paper App Dungeon. Here, every roll of the die carried significance, every line drawn toward the goal felt purposeful, and every encounter with a defender became a moment of tension where my choices and my luck combined in a dynamic way. I found myself leaning into the decisions, considering whether to take the riskier path that offered a faster route or the safer line that would avoid defenders but require more rolls. It was in these moments that I recognized the heart of what had been missing in the earlier game: meaningful choice. Roll for the Goal restored that sense of agency, giving me control over the outcome in ways that mattered.
The game’s core mechanic was so stripped down that it almost seemed fragile, but it was precisely that sparseness that made the choices stand out. On each turn, the roll determined how far my line would travel, and my task was to direct that momentum toward the goal in a way that balanced ambition with caution. If I ended adjacent to a defender, I had to roll against their value, a contest that brought suspense to every decision. Win, and I surged ahead; lose, and my progress was stifled. This ebb and flow of advancement and setback created a rhythm that was easy to understand yet still managed to feel engaging. Unlike Paper App Dungeon, where the dice seemed to act in isolation from my choices, here the dice worked in tandem with my decisions, shaping the possibilities but leaving room for strategy. It was a collaboration between chance and intent, the very essence of what makes dice-driven games exciting. I felt that sense of tension and payoff that comes when the roll of the die does not simply dictate the game but interacts with the choices I have made to create moments of triumph or frustration that feel earned.
What struck me most about Roll for the Goal was how efficiently it created stakes. Even though the premise was lighthearted, a simple soccer match played out on a grid of dots, the presence of defenders and the mechanics of roll-offs imbued the game with a sense of contest. I could see the defenders as obstacles to be navigated, not merely static points on a page but active threats to my progress. This small touch of resistance elevated the experience from being a mere puzzle to something more like a sport in miniature, where planning and risk-taking were necessary for victory. The presence of opposition made my successes feel sweeter and my failures more dramatic, even in such a compact system. It was proof that even the smallest of design choices—placing defenders with values and requiring contests—could drastically alter the tone of a game. Instead of drifting passively through the motions, I was actively engaged, calculating my options, feeling invested in the outcome of each die roll. That engagement was what had been missing from Paper App Dungeon, and seeing it appear so clearly in this free experiment forced me to rethink my assumptions about Gladden Design’s capabilities.
The accessibility of Roll for the Goal also made a difference in how I received it. Because it was free and easy to set up, there was no pressure to commit significant time or resources, which allowed me to approach it with openness rather than skepticism. Sometimes, the simplest games are the ones that sneak up on you, winning you over precisely because they do not demand much at the outset. This was one of those cases. Within minutes, I was immersed in the rhythm of rolling, drawing, and contesting, and what had begun as a casual trial evolved into an experience that lingered in my thoughts afterward. The fact that the game managed to capture my attention so fully with so little was a testament to the strength of its design. It demonstrated that complexity is not always necessary for depth, and that even a minimalist framework can create genuine engagement if it is constructed thoughtfully. I realized that part of my disappointment with Paper App Dungeon had come from expecting too much from its novelty, whereas Roll for the Goal had won me over by promising nothing more than a quick pastime and then overdelivering on that promise.
This experience led me to reflect on the importance of expectations in gaming. With Paper App Dungeon, I had expected an adventure, a portable dungeon crawl that would offer a compact version of the thrills I associate with larger tabletop games. When it failed to deliver those thrills, my disappointment was magnified. With Roll for the Goal, I expected almost nothing, and what I received felt like a gift. It reminded me that sometimes the success of a game lies not in how much it can cram into its structure but in how effectively it executes its chosen scope. Roll for the Goal never tried to be more than it was, and in doing so, it became more compelling than a design that had overreached. This lesson resonated with me, because it highlighted how important it is for designers to understand the scale of their ambitions and to shape their mechanics accordingly. In this case, the modest ambition of creating a quick, engaging soccer-themed activity translated into an experience that exceeded its small frame.
Another dimension that deepened my appreciation was the way Roll for the Goal managed to provide replay value despite its simplicity. Every playthrough was different, shaped by the luck of the dice and the choices I made along the way. The defenders were static, but their influence on the game varied depending on how my rolls lined up, ensuring that no two attempts felt exactly alike. I could experiment with different approaches, testing whether it was better to aim directly for the goal with bold moves or to take a more cautious path around the defenders. Each strategy had its own risks and rewards, and the outcomes encouraged me to keep trying again. That desire to replay, to test new ideas, was a sign that the game had struck the right balance between structure and variability. Even in such a compact system, it managed to sustain my interest across multiple sessions, something Paper App Dungeon had never achieved.
In the end, Roll for the Goal became more than just a free diversion to me. It became a case study in how even the smallest designs can succeed when they prioritize meaningful interaction, agency, and tension. It showed me that Gladden Design was capable of producing experiences that resonated with my values as a player, even if not all of their projects did so equally. The contrast between my disappointment with Paper App Dungeon and my enjoyment of Roll for the Goal was striking, but rather than deepen my frustration, it gave me hope. It proved that the studio could listen, adapt, and experiment in ways that mattered. Roll for the Goal did not need to be grand or complex to earn my respect; it simply needed to offer me choices, risks, and payoffs, and in doing so, it rekindled my willingness to explore what Gladden Design might produce in the future.
Conclusion
Looking back across my journey with Gladden Design, I am struck by how much a single small game can shift perspective and reshape expectations. My first experience with Paper App Dungeon left me disillusioned, frustrated by a format that felt limiting and mechanics that failed to spark the sense of discovery I craved. For a time, that disappointment colored my entire view of the studio, convincing me that their work might not be aligned with the qualities I seek in games. Yet the later realization that print-and-play options existed, and the discovery of other projects within their catalog, softened my stance and reminded me that a single encounter should never define an entire creative body of work. The free title Roll for the Goal served as the real turning point, demonstrating that even within the simplest of designs, Gladden Design could deliver choice, agency, and tension—qualities that had been absent from my first experience but were central to why I play games at all. That contrast highlighted not just the differences between two titles but the evolution of a designer willing to experiment and refine ideas over time.
What this journey underscored most for me is the importance of openness in engaging with independent creators. It is easy to dismiss a studio or a designer after one misstep, particularly when that misstep happens to be the first thing you encounter. Yet doing so risks missing out on the richness that comes with growth, adaptation, and experimentation. Gladden Design taught me that what may begin as a frustrating or disappointing experience can, through persistence and exploration, transform into something that reignites curiosity and respect. The availability of PnP formats reinforced the sense of flexibility and community that I value, and Roll for the Goal reminded me that even the smallest, freest experiments can carry the seeds of meaningful play. Taken together, these experiences reshaped my outlook, leaving me not with a lingering sense of disappointment but with an eagerness to see what lies ahead. If anything, they reaffirmed the lesson that games, like their designers, are living entities, always changing, always evolving, and always capable of surprising us when we give them another chance.