When opening a game box, most players expect a combination of excitement, anticipation, and aesthetic pleasure. The artwork on the cover sets the stage, the smell of fresh print signals newness, and the components, once revealed, should feel like polished tools of imagination waiting to bring the game to life. Unfortunately, that was not the case when I opened Drakon and laid eyes on the tiles. What should have been a beautiful spread of dungeon paths and chambers instead came with a shock: a stench that reminded me of damp cardboard and a set of edges that looked more like workshop scrap than finished game pieces.
The odor was unpleasant enough, lingering faintly in the air even after the box had been left open for some time. It was the kind of smell that immediately pulls you out of immersion. However, smells dissipate. They can fade with time and airing out, and even though the initial experience was unpleasant, I knew the real problem lay elsewhere. What could not be ignored were the edges of the tiles themselves.
Each tile was scarred with three large sprue marks on every edge, adding up to twelve visible blemishes per tile. Imagine a board game that depends entirely on the act of laying down tiles to construct the dungeon where adventurers would wander, and every single tile looked like it had been gnawed on by a dull blade before being tossed in the box. It was not just disappointing; it was distracting. Instead of focusing on strategy, character choices, or the unfolding story, my eyes were drawn again and again to those jagged bits of cardboard that jutted from the sides.
The reason this matters so much in a tile-laying game is because tiles are the stage, the building blocks of the world. Unlike in some games where a token or a card may have minor blemishes that can be overlooked, in Drakon the tiles are central to the entire visual and tactile experience. Each player contributes to the creation of a dungeon labyrinth, and the sense of wonder should come from how the dungeon grows, twists, and turns. But instead of marveling at clever pathways and unexpected connections, I found myself frustrated by the poor production finish that seemed to taunt me from every corner of every tile.
At first, I tried to tell myself it wasn’t a big deal. After all, games are about gameplay, not cosmetic perfection, and the edges didn’t affect the rules. But games are also about immersion, and immersion requires harmony between theme, mechanics, and presentation. If even one of these falters, the entire experience can feel compromised. In this case, the sprue marks were not only unsightly but actively broke the illusion of exploring a fantasy dungeon. They made the game feel cheap, unfinished, and rushed to market.
Naturally, I started thinking of solutions. One of the first that came to mind was the so-called “printer’s trick,” a method sometimes used by professionals to neaten up the edges of printed paper or cardstock. By lightly sanding down the surface, it is possible to remove burrs or imperfections. The problem here was that cardboard tiles are layered material, pressed together under industrial conditions to form a rigid whole. Sanding too aggressively could easily separate those layers, leaving behind frayed edges or warped corners. Even if it worked on a few tiles, repeating it across seventy-two would almost certainly ruin several, and worse, the effort would leave me with tiles that still displayed the unattractive gray edge of exposed cardboard.
This realization left me at an impasse. I could either ignore the problem and learn to live with it, or I could find a way to disguise it. Ignoring it did not feel like a real option. Every time I looked at the board, I would see those ugly protrusions staring back at me. It would be like owning a painting where the frame had splinters sticking out in all directions. You might tell yourself that you should only focus on the artwork, but in reality, the frame always catches your attention.
That was when a new idea began to form. If the issue could not be removed without risk, then perhaps it could be disguised. The edges of the tiles did not need to be bare cardboard gray; they could be made to look intentional, even stylish. What if, instead of blemishes, they were inked in black? Black would match the dungeon theme, providing a shadowed edge that felt more like part of the design than a flaw. And most importantly, it would hide the sprue chunks by blending them into a uniform color.
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Many publishers already use black-core cards or darker edge finishes in premium editions of their games because it enhances durability and aesthetics. Why not apply the same principle here, even if it meant doing the work myself? It would take time and effort, but the reward would be tiles that looked not only finished but elegant.
There was, however, a lingering question: could I really pull this off across seventy-two tiles without losing patience or ruining the set? The task sounded monumental, especially since each tile was over two inches square, and every side had to be carefully inked. But the alternative—living with jagged gray sprues was intolerable. To put it bluntly, I could not resist the idea of a pimped set of Drakon tiles.
The decision was made, but the problem had only shifted. Now it was no longer about whether the tiles could look better, but how best to make them look better. Ink pens, markers, spray paint, or some entirely different technique—all these possibilities loomed before me, and I knew the next step would require experimentation. What began as frustration with the ugliness of the tiles was about to transform into a full-fledged creative project, one that combined practical problem-solving with aesthetic ambition.
The First Attempt with Ink
Once the idea had taken root in my mind, there was no turning back. The tiles of Drakon could not remain in their natural state, scarred with sprue marks and gray edges that looked like unfinished workshop scraps. I had convinced myself that the only way forward was to disguise the flaws, to give the tiles a uniform edge treatment that would transform them from cheap-looking cardboard into something more worthy of the game’s theme. The solution, at least in theory, was simple: ink the edges black.
I began cautiously. Pulling a single tile from the stack, I studied its edges under the light. The protruding chunks were as ugly as ever, like little growths jutting from the cardboard. I held a black marker in my hand, one of those thick permanent pens that seemed suited to such a task, and hesitated. Would the ink bleed into the layers? Would it smudge across the printed surface of the tile and ruin the artwork? There was no way to know without trying, so I pressed the pen against the edge and drew it slowly along the cardboard.
The result was immediate and remarkable. The raw gray of the cardboard vanished beneath the black, the sprue chunk absorbed the ink greedily, and what had looked like a scar now appeared deliberate, almost elegant. Where before the eye was drawn to the pale edge, now the tile looked finished, polished, and thematically appropriate. I turned the tile over, studied it carefully, and felt the surge of satisfaction that comes when an idea proves itself right in practice.
Encouraged, I inked a second tile, then a third. Each transformation was as gratifying as the first. The white edging that sometimes crept onto the artwork disappeared, the corners became sharp and shadowed, and the entire presentation improved dramatically. For the first time since opening the box, I felt genuinely pleased with the appearance of the components. I could already imagine the dungeon assembled on the table, each tile seamlessly blending with the next, the edges no longer screaming for attention but quietly supporting the overall aesthetic.
But then I looked beyond the three finished tiles to the mountain of untouched ones. Seventy-two tiles in total, each with four edges. That meant two hundred and eighty-eight separate lines that needed careful inking. I lined them up, stacked them, and tried to visualize the task ahead. The neat black edges of the three completed tiles seemed to mock me, whispering of the endless repetition required to bring all their brethren to the same standard.
The reality of the work ahead hit me like a weight. This was not a quick fix or a small evening project. This was a marathon. At best, it would take several hours of steady, patient effort. At worst, it might consume entire days, draining not only my marker’s ink supply but also my enthusiasm. Yet there was no escaping the fact that the tiles looked infinitely better once treated. I knew I could not go back to playing with the unfinished edges, not after seeing how good the inked ones appeared.
So I sat at the table, marker in hand, and began the slow process of edging tile after tile. With each stroke, the pen darkened the cardboard, hiding its imperfections. The rhythm became hypnotic: press, slide, turn, repeat. I found myself falling into a kind of meditative state, though the monotony quickly wore thin. After ten or so tiles, my hand began to cramp, the fumes of the permanent marker tickled my nose, and I realized how far I still had to go.
Doubts began to creep in. Would the marker even last through all seventy-two tiles? Permanent markers, after all, are not designed for large surface coverage. They dry out quickly when pressed against absorbent materials, and the cardboard edges were proving especially thirsty. Already, I noticed the tip beginning to dull, the flow of ink less smooth. What if I ruined the marker halfway through and had no replacement? What if the ink faded unevenly, leaving some tiles darker than others? The prospect of a half-finished job filled me with unease.
I tried to reassure myself. Surely I could buy another marker if needed. Surely the slight variations would not be noticeable when the tiles were laid out together. But the nagging doubts remained. This was going to be a long, arduous process, one that tested both my patience and my supplies.
After perhaps an hour of work, I looked at my progress. A modest stack of tiles had been transformed, their edges sleek and black, while the rest loomed in unaltered gray, stretching away like an unending horizon of unfinished business. The disparity was almost comical, as though I had taken a few steps on a long journey and already felt exhausted. The thought of repeating the same motions for hours on end made me sigh deeply.
That night, I set the project aside. The marker lay on the table, its cap replaced, the few finished tiles stacked neatly beside it. I told myself I would return to the task tomorrow, fresh and determined. But as I lay in bed, I could not shake the thought of the monumental workload ahead. It was not that the task was difficult; it was simply that it was so repetitive, so endless.
The following morning, I tried again. I retrieved my fattest marker, one that had been sitting in an old Trivial Pursuit card holder for years, and put it to the test. The wider tip covered more ground with less effort, and for a brief moment, I felt renewed hope. Perhaps with the right tool, the job could go faster. I inked several tiles in quick succession, pleased with the results.
And then another thought struck me. Did I really need to ink each tile individually? What if there was a way to treat several at once? I imagined holding a stack of tiles tightly together, pressing them into a block, and inking the edges as though they were a single object. Or perhaps, instead of a marker, I could use paint. Spray paint, in particular, seemed promising. A few quick bursts could cover entire stacks of edges in seconds, turning what would otherwise take hours into minutes.
The idea electrified me. Suddenly the endless mountain of tiles seemed conquerable. Instead of spending three or four hours hunched over a marker, I could finish the job in less than twenty minutes. I even had a can of matte black spray paint lying around, the kind designed for high temperatures. It was less sticky than most paints, and I was confident it would not glue the tiles together.
Of course, there were risks. What if the spray seeped too far and stained the artwork on the tiles’ faces? What if the tiles stuck together despite my optimism? What if the paint smelled worse than the cardboard itself? These were real concerns, but the potential reward was too great to ignore. I knew I had to try.
The first attempt with ink had proven the concept. The tiles could indeed be transformed into something beautiful with black edges. But it had also revealed the impracticality of doing it one by one. The project demanded a new approach, something faster, bolder, and more efficient. I began to see the marker not as the final solution but as a stepping stone, a proof of principle that paved the way for the real breakthrough to come.
The frustration of the sprue marks had set me on this path, the marker had shown me it was possible, and now the thought of spray paint dangled before me like a beacon of salvation. All that remained was to gather my courage, head outside with a stack of tiles, and test the theory.
The Breakthrough with Spray Paint
The idea of using spray paint had been growing in my mind ever since the marker began to wear thin. The memory of how long it had taken to ink just a handful of tiles weighed heavily on me, and the thought of spending hours upon hours repeating the same motion was unbearable. Spray paint promised something different: speed, consistency, and the ability to cover multiple tiles in one go. It was the kind of shortcut that might turn a frustrating task into a satisfying craft project.
I dug out the can of matte black spray paint I had tucked away in the garage. It was not the kind of paint you would usually associate with tabletop gaming components. In fact, it was designed for much harsher conditions, meant to withstand high temperatures on exhaust pipes and machinery. Yet its matte finish seemed perfect for this job, and its thinner texture reassured me that it would not make the tiles sticky or clump them together. I shook the can and heard the ball rattle inside, that familiar sound of potential waiting to be unleashed.
The tiles themselves presented a challenge. How would I hold them steady enough to spray only the edges while keeping the faces untouched? Laying them flat seemed risky, as the paint would inevitably overshoot. Spraying each one individually was out of the question; that would defeat the whole purpose. After staring at the stacks of tiles for a while, inspiration struck. The Trivial Pursuit box lid I had used earlier for holding pens was almost the exact size of the tiles. By slotting them inside, I could hold a stack securely, expose the edges, and keep the faces protected. The solution had been sitting right in front of me the whole time.
I gathered the first batch of tiles, slotted them tightly into the makeshift holder, and masked off the exposed surfaces with scraps of paper. The setup looked crude, but it gave me the confidence to proceed. I carried the box outside, where the air would carry away the fumes, and placed it on the edge of a dustbin. I gave the spray can another vigorous shake, pressed down on the nozzle, and watched as a fine mist of black paint coated the edges in a matter of seconds.
The effect was instant. Where before there had been gray cardboard scarred with sprue chunks, now there was a uniform black band encircling the tiles. The paint clung neatly to the edges without dripping, drying quickly into a matte finish that looked deliberate and professional. I turned the stack, sprayed another side, and repeated the process until all four edges had been coated. The entire stack was finished in under a minute.
Compared to the painstaking labor of the marker, this felt like a miracle. What would have taken hours with ink was now done in moments. The tiles no longer looked like cheap cardboard cutouts. They looked like polished components, their edges smooth and dark, blending seamlessly with the artwork. For the first time, the dungeon tiles of Drakon looked as though they belonged in a game of fantasy adventure, not in a recycling bin.
I stood back and admired the result. The difference was astonishing. It was not just that the edges were black; it was that the blackness disguised the imperfections. The sprue chunks, which had once been eyesores, now disappeared into the shadow of the paint. The layers of cardboard that had threatened to separate under sanding were hidden, unified beneath the matte coat. The tiles had been transformed from crude to refined, from unfinished to finished.
The process quickly became a routine. Spray one stack, wait a few minutes for it to dry, rotate, spray again. Each round took only seconds, with drying times short enough to keep the momentum going. I found myself falling into a rhythm, almost like an assembly line. The sound of the spray can, the faint hiss of paint leaving the nozzle, the satisfaction of watching gray turn to black—it became strangely addictive.
Within twenty minutes, I had completed the entire set of seventy-two tiles. What had once seemed like a Herculean task had been reduced to the span of a coffee break. The contrast to the marker experiment could not have been greater. Where before I had ended the day frustrated, hand cramping and marker drying out, now I felt exhilarated. The project had shifted from burden to triumph.
But the spray paint had more to offer. As I looked at the finished tiles stacked neatly together, I noticed the overspray on the Trivial Pursuit lid. Instead of being a problem, it sparked a new idea. Why not extend the paint beyond the tiles themselves? Why not use it to customize the storage as well? The lids had already proven to be useful holders for the tiles. With a little creativity, they could become part of the game’s presentation, not just a tool for the process.
I deliberately sprayed the entire outer surface of the lid, covering it completely in matte black. Suddenly it no longer looked like a recycled trivia box but like a purpose-built container for dungeon tiles. The plain surface seemed to beg for decoration, for something thematic to tie it to the game. I searched through artwork, printed fitting images onto adhesive sheets, and carefully applied them to the sides. The result was a custom storage solution that looked like it had been designed with Drakon in mind.
What had started as a problem with ugly tile edges had become an opportunity for creative expression. The spray paint not only solved the original issue but also opened the door to reimagining the entire storage system. With foamcore partitions glued into place, I created compartments for miniatures, tokens, and coins. The tiles themselves were easy to draw straight from the boxes during play, eliminating the clumsy shuffling that had plagued the original setup. Everything fits neatly back into the main box, now more organized and more thematic than before.
The transformation was complete when I set the start tile aside and inked its edges red instead of black. This single tile stood out immediately, easy to identify during setup, while also serving as a subtle visual flourish. It felt like the final touch on a project that had grown far beyond its initial scope.
As I looked at the finished product, I realized that the spray paint had not just been a practical tool; it had been the breakthrough that turned frustration into creativity. It allowed me to bypass the tedium of manual inking, to save time without sacrificing quality, and to experiment with storage solutions that made the game more enjoyable to handle. The tiles, once marred by their ugly edges, now looked sublime.
Most importantly, the process reminded me that gaming is not just about what comes in the box. It is about the experience, the atmosphere, and the sense of ownership that comes from tailoring a game to your liking. By taking the time to transform the components, I had made Drakon more than just another board game on the shelf. I had made it mine.
The Finished Result and Reflection
When the last tile dried, and the final spray of paint had settled into its matte finish, I stood before a transformed game. What had once been an uninspiring stack of gray-edged cardboard, marred with sprue marks and a sense of cheapness, had now become something altogether different. The edges gleamed with uniform blackness, the sprue chunks hidden in shadow, the artwork framed in a way that felt intentional and deliberate. It was no longer a matter of tolerating flawed components; it was about holding something I had improved with my own hands.
The sense of satisfaction did not come only from the aesthetics, though they were striking. It came from the process, from the way frustration had turned into creativity, and from how each small experiment led to something larger. What began as a gripe about ugly tile edges had evolved into a complete rethinking of storage and presentation, culminating in a project that blended utility, artistry, and personal pride.
The spray-painted edges were only the beginning. The Trivial Pursuit lids, repurposed as tile holders, had gone from makeshift tools to polished storage boxes. With the addition of printed artwork and foamcore partitions, they felt like they belonged to the game itself. One box held the tiles, stacked neatly, edges blackened, ready to be drawn during play. The other held the miniatures, tokens, and coins, each in its own compartment, easy to retrieve and put away. No more fumbling through plastic bags or dealing with awkward stacks sliding across the table. Everything had a place, and everything fit neatly back into the main box.
The overspray that had at first seemed like a mistake turned into an advantage, sparking the idea to paint the storage boxes completely. The matte black coating gave them a professional look, while the adhesive artwork added a thematic flourish that tied them to the world of Drakon. The game now felt less like a product pulled from a factory line and more like a bespoke set, crafted to enhance the experience. Every time I looked at the storage boxes, I felt a spark of pride. They were not just containers; they were part of the game’s atmosphere, contributing to the immersion as much as the miniatures and artwork.
The start tile, with its red-inked edges, was the final touch. It stood out immediately, easy to identify among the sea of black-edged tiles, but it also carried symbolic weight. It marked the beginning of the dungeon, the point of entry into the labyrinth, and the place where adventures began. Highlighting it in red made it special, a small detail that added personality and function in equal measure. Whenever I pulled it from the box, it reminded me of the effort that had gone into the project, and of the joy that comes from taking ownership of a game.
The finished result was not just about aesthetics or storage. It was about reclaiming the joy of the game itself. Before, the rough edges and flimsy presentation had been a distraction. They had pulled me out of the experience, reminding me of the compromises that often accompany mass-produced components. Now, the game felt whole. The tiles were satisfying to handle, smooth and uniform in their finish. The storage made setup and cleanup faster and more enjoyable. Every detail contributed to a sense of cohesion, making the game feel more polished and immersive.
Reflecting on the project, I realized how much it echoed the spirit of tabletop gaming itself. At its core, gaming is about creativity, problem-solving, and making experiences your own. Just as players invent strategies, tell stories, and explore possibilities within a game, so too can they extend that creativity to the physical components. Customization, whether through painting miniatures, designing house rules, or improving components, is an expression of that same spirit. It is about shaping the experience to suit your preferences, turning the generic into the personal.
The process also highlighted the value of experimentation. The first attempt with the marker pen had been slow and unsatisfying, yet it was a necessary step. Without it, I would not have realized the limitations of that method, nor would I have been motivated to seek out an alternative. The discovery of spray paint, the use of Trivial Pursuit lids, the application of adhesive artwork—each was born from trial and error, from being willing to test an idea and see where it led. The end result was far greater than anything I could have planned from the start.
What struck me most was how the project transformed my relationship with the game. Drakon was no longer just a box on the shelf, competing for attention with other titles. It was a game I had invested in, not financially but creatively. That investment deepened my connection to it, making me more eager to bring it to the table, to share it with others, and to enjoy it fully. Every time I set it up, I would not just be playing Drakon; I would be playing my Drakon, the version I had shaped and improved.
In a broader sense, the experience underscored the power of customization in gaming. Many players feel a sense of frustration when components fall short of expectations, whether due to poor quality, awkward design, or lack of thematic immersion. But those frustrations can be opportunities. With a little effort, creativity, and willingness to experiment, players can transform flaws into strengths, turning imperfections into projects that enhance the game. The act of customization becomes part of the hobby, as rewarding as the gameplay itself.
Looking at the finished set, I also thought about time. What had once seemed like a project that would take hours of tedious work had, with the right tools and approach, taken only minutes. The spray paint had been the key, but so too had been the mindset shift. Instead of dreading the task, I had embraced it as an opportunity for creativity. That shift in perspective made all the difference. It turned the project from a chore into a joy, and the memory of the process became as valuable as the result.
In the end, the ugly tile edges that had once frustrated me became the catalyst for one of the most satisfying gaming projects I had undertaken. The blackened edges, the custom storage boxes, the red start tile—all of these details came together to create a finished product that felt polished, personal, and deeply satisfying. The flaws had not been obstacles; they had been invitations to create something better.
As I slid the finished components back into the box, everything fitting neatly, everything ready for the next game, I felt a sense of closure. The project was complete, but the enjoyment it would bring was only beginning. Drakon, once a game marred by its rough edges, had become a treasure on my shelf, not just for its gameplay but for the story of how it had been transformed.
And that, perhaps, is the essence of the hobby. Games are not static objects; they are living experiences, shaped by the players who bring them to life. By taking the time to improve, customize, and personalize them, we do more than fix flaws. We make them ours.
Conclusion
The transformation of Drakon’s tiles from rough, unfinished components into a polished and visually cohesive set highlights the dedication and care that can elevate the tabletop gaming experience. Initially, the tiles presented a frustrating combination of jagged edges, protruding sprue chunks, and visible inconsistencies that detracted from both the visual appeal and the tactile enjoyment of the game. Attempts to correct these flaws with sanding proved risky, as the delicate layers of paper on each tile threatened to separate, leaving the components even more compromised. The decision to ink the edges in black proved to be a pivotal solution, concealing imperfections while enhancing the overall aesthetics. This simple yet effective method not only improved the look of individual tiles but also created a consistent and professional appearance across the entire set, contributing to a more immersive and satisfying gameplay experience.
The scale of the task added an additional layer of challenge. Seventy-two tiles, each requiring careful attention, demanded patience, time, and a systematic approach. Experimentation with different techniques, from inking tiles individually to spraying multiple edges at once with matte black paint, demonstrated the importance of problem-solving and adaptability in customizing components. These efforts underscore a unique aspect of tabletop gaming beyond the rules and mechanics: the opportunity to modify, enhance, and personalize the game itself. The process of refining the tiles required a careful balance of precision and efficiency, showing that thoughtful attention to component quality can significantly enhance both the visual appeal and the functional usability of a game.
Organization and storage were equally critical to the project’s success. By repurposing card boxes to hold tiles, miniatures, and tokens, and creating partitions with foamcore, the game became far easier to manage during play. This organization not only improved setup time and accessibility but also reinforced the importance of component storage in maintaining a clean, functional, and enjoyable gaming environment. Well-stored and easily retrievable components allow players to focus on strategy and gameplay rather than managing disorganized pieces, highlighting how attention to physical presentation can complement the game’s mechanics.
Beyond the practical and visual improvements, the project fostered a stronger personal connection to Drakon. The act of customizing each tile, creating storage solutions, and observing the transformation instilled a sense of ownership and pride. Engaging with the physical components in this way enhanced the overall gaming experience, illustrating that tabletop games offer enjoyment not only through strategy and competition but also through craftsmanship and personalization. The careful attention invested in transforming Drakon’s tiles elevates the game from a set of mechanics and rules into a fully immersive experience. Players benefit from both the improved aesthetics and the functional enhancements, resulting in a more satisfying and memorable interaction with the game.
Ultimately, the effort to refine and organize Drakon’s components demonstrates how dedication to detail can transform a game. By addressing imperfections, improving aesthetics, and creating practical storage, the overall experience of playing Drakon is enhanced. This process exemplifies how the physical components of a game are as vital to enjoyment as the mechanics themselves, reinforcing the value of creativity, patience, and care in tabletop gaming.