When we sit down at a table with friends, unbox a new game, and begin the process of learning its rules, there is an undeniable sense of promise in the air. Every new game represents potential: potential for laughter, strategy, shared discovery, or even frustration and rivalry. For hobbyists who spend countless hours researching, purchasing, and discussing games, this promise becomes almost as important as the game itself. Yet one of the more sobering realities of tabletop gaming is that not every game delivers on that promise, at least not in the way we expect. Some titles dazzle at first glance only to collapse under scrutiny. Others fail to capture attention right out of the gate, leaving us wondering why we invested time, money, or emotional energy in them. This tension between expectation and reality lies at the heart of many disappointing gaming experiences, and understanding it requires a closer look at how gamers engage with their hobby on both personal and communal levels.
A personal example that illustrates this tension occurred during a trip away from home, when a group of friends decided to try Shadows over Camelot for the first time. The game had long held a reputation as one of the classic cooperative experiences, a title often mentioned alongside other staples like Pandemic or Dead of Winter. The box cover alone promised drama: knights of the Round Table, looming threats, and a sense of narrative weight. Unpacking it and setting up the board felt like unlocking an artifact of hobby gaming history. Yet the play session that followed was anything but legendary. From the outset, the group was disoriented. With no prior experience, the responsibility for teaching the game fell on one person, who had also never played before. This led to a technically correct rules explanation but one devoid of the sense of rhythm and flow that seasoned players use to illustrate why actions matter and how choices stack up. As a result, every turn felt disconnected, reactive rather than proactive, and any sense of control quickly slipped away as the game buried the group in catapults and failure.
The disappointment here stemmed less from the design of the game and more from the collision between expectation and reality. The expectation was that Shadows over Camelot would offer an experience comparable to other cooperative titles: tense, punishing but fair, and filled with moments of exhilaration when players work together to stave off disaster. The reality was that the first play exposed the game at its most unforgiving, punishing players not because they made mistakes in execution but because they lacked the meta-knowledge of how pacing and momentum should feel. This gap left the group feeling demoralized before they had a chance to discover what makes the game enjoyable. In many ways, this is a universal story in gaming, repeated with different titles across different groups: the first play is often decisive in shaping impressions, and when that play goes poorly, it can permanently close the door on revisiting the game.
Why does this matter? Because in gaming culture, expectations are not created in a vacuum. They are shaped by reviews, conversations, marketing, and comparisons to other experiences. Shadows over Camelot was not approached as a blank slate; it was approached as the “classic co-op with a traitor element.” The very label carries weight. A player who loves Pandemic expects similar arcs of tension and release. A player who enjoys social deception games anticipates that the traitor will add spice to the formula. When those elements do not materialize as expected—either because of player count, choice to omit modules, or simple unfamiliarity—the resulting gap becomes fertile ground for disappointment. The letdown is not simply “this game is bad,” but rather “this game failed to be what I was told it could be.”
Another strong example of expectation versus reality lies in Splendor. When this title was acquired as a gift for a fellow gamer, the expectation was rooted in its reputation: a streamlined engine builder with elegant mechanics and wide accessibility. Splendor had been praised as a gateway into the hobby, something that bridged casual players and enthusiasts alike. It was chosen precisely because it seemed like a safe bet, the kind of game that would click with someone who had enjoyed Ticket to Ride and Carcassonne. Yet the actual experience of playing it revealed an unexpected hollowness. Instead of sparking conversation and friendly competition, the game created a hushed atmosphere of calculation. Players silently collected tokens, planned their purchases, and occasionally cursed when the exact card they wanted was claimed first. Mechanically it functioned perfectly, yet emotionally it felt barren. The realization struck that mechanics alone were not enough; theme and interaction mattered far more than expected.
This discovery—that a game can succeed in mechanical design and still fail to satisfy—highlights a deeper truth about expectations in gaming. Hobbyists often focus on elegance, balance, and accessibility, but the actual play experience depends on intangible factors like group dynamics, emotional engagement, and personal taste. A game like Splendor might delight a group that enjoys quiet, contemplative play, where efficiency and calculation are celebrated. For another group, especially one that thrives on banter, storytelling, or narrative immersion, the same game can feel lifeless. The disappointment, then, is not that the game is objectively flawed, but that it fails to align with the expectations and play culture of the group.
This raises the question of how expectations are formed in the first place. In the modern gaming landscape, hype cycles are constant. Every new release is heralded as innovative, revolutionary, or essential. Content creators dissect previews, forums debate balance, and publishers lean heavily into marketing narratives. By the time a game arrives at the table, it carries a heavy burden of expectation. Even when a player consciously tries to approach with an open mind, the weight of what they have read and heard inevitably shapes perception. This creates a double-edged sword. On one hand, hype generates excitement and builds community. On the other, it sets games up to fail if the lived experience falls short of the imagined one. Shadows over Camelot and Splendor serve as prime examples of this dynamic: both were approached with the expectation of brilliance, and both faltered because they did not deliver the specific type of brilliance that was anticipated.
The consequences of unmet expectations are not trivial. In a hobby where time is scarce and shelf space limited, first impressions often determine whether a game remains in rotation or is quietly traded away. Unlike digital games that can be patched or updated, tabletop titles remain static, relying on expansions or house rules for adjustment. This permanence amplifies the importance of the first experience. A poor showing can relegate a game to obscurity in a collection, regardless of whether it might shine under different conditions. This is particularly painful when the investment has been significant, either financially or emotionally. Buying a game as a gift, as in the case of Splendor, carries the added expectation that it will foster joy for others. When that joy fails to manifest, the disappointment deepens into regret.
It is important, however, to recognize that disappointment does not always equal final judgment. In some cases, the gap between expectation and reality can be bridged with patience and persistence. Returning to Shadows over Camelot with a clearer sense of pacing, adding the traitor role, or simply playing with someone experienced could transform the experience entirely. Likewise, Splendor might reveal hidden depths over multiple plays, as subtle strategies emerge and the rhythm of play becomes more engaging. The challenge lies in convincing players to grant that second chance. Once a game has been labeled disappointing, enthusiasm for revisiting it often wanes, making redemption difficult.
This dynamic reveals something about the psychology of gaming: we are not merely evaluating rules and components, but measuring experiences against an internalized vision of what they could be. Disappointment is a function of contrast. The higher the expectation, the harsher the fall when reality diverges. Conversely, games approached with little or no expectation often surprise us, creating delight precisely because they outperform the modest assumptions we carried into them. This is why overlooked or underhyped titles can sometimes create the most memorable gaming moments. Without the burden of expectation, players are free to experience them on their own terms.
The broader implication for the gaming community is that cultivating realistic expectations can be as important as evaluating mechanics. Sharing honest accounts of first plays, acknowledging the role of group dynamics, and tempering hype with nuance all help create a healthier culture around gaming. Enthusiasts are passionate, and passion fuels excitement, but unchecked enthusiasm can inadvertently set others up for disappointment. The cycle continues when those disappointed voices feed back into the community, creating polarized reputations where games are either heralded as masterpieces or dismissed as failures, with little room for the nuanced reality in between.
Ultimately, grappling with expectations in gaming is a reminder that this hobby is as much about people as it is about cardboard and dice. The rules and components provide the framework, but the experience lives in the interaction between players, the narratives they construct, and the emotions they share. Disappointment is inevitable when expectations and reality clash, but it also provides an opportunity for reflection. What do we truly value in our gaming experiences? Is it the theme, the mechanics, the social interaction, or some alchemy of all three? Answering these questions helps refine our understanding of what we seek, guiding future choices and reducing the sting of unmet expectations.
The Struggle Between Randomness and Control
One of the most enduring tensions in tabletop gaming is the balance between randomness and control. On the one hand, chance elements can create drama, unpredictability, and memorable stories that linger long after the game ends. On the other hand, too much randomness can erode a sense of agency, leaving players feeling like passengers on a ride rather than drivers of their own destinies. This tension becomes especially pronounced in longer, narrative-driven games where the investment of time and energy is significant. A moment of arbitrary misfortune, delivered at the wrong time, can sour hours of careful planning. Nowhere was this dynamic more evident than in the experience of playing Eldritch Horror, a game that promised streamlined improvements over its spiritual predecessor but instead left a bitter taste of futility.
Eldritch Horror carried with it enormous expectations, especially for anyone steeped in the mythos of H. P. Lovecraft. The allure of exploring a globe-spanning narrative filled with ancient evils, forbidden tomes, and desperate investigators is undeniable. For fans of cosmic horror, the game’s premise seems almost tailor-made: players work together to stave off the rise of unspeakable entities while facing bizarre encounters across a richly detailed world map. On the surface, it looks like the perfect blend of theme and mechanics. Yet beneath the surface lies a dependency on randomness that can, at times, strip players of meaningful choice. The experience of having an hour’s worth of coordinated effort erased by the flip of a single card illustrates the cruel edge of chance when it is wielded without moderation.
The disappointment here lies not simply in losing—after all, losing is a natural and often integral part of cooperative games—but in the sense that choices did not matter. In Eldritch Horror, players often encounter situations where their success or failure hinges on a die roll with no real opportunity to influence the odds. While other cooperative games mitigate randomness with tools that allow players to strategize around risk, Eldritch Horror frequently leaves them at the mercy of fate. This can result in dramatic moments, but it can also feel like wasted time when hours of progress vanish with no opportunity for mitigation. In the game session where a solved mystery was discarded without recourse, the sense of futility became overwhelming. It was not a dramatic defeat earned through poor choices or risky gambles, but a dismissal of effort imposed by an uncaring mechanic.
The role of randomness in gaming is complex, and it is worth exploring why it sometimes works and sometimes fails. Randomness can serve as an engine for storytelling. Dice rolls, shuffled decks, and hidden draws create uncertainty, forcing players to adapt and generating emergent narratives that scripted experiences cannot replicate. A close call in a dungeon crawl, a critical miss at a climactic moment, or the sudden appearance of an unexpected enemy can elevate an otherwise routine session into a legendary tale. Yet for randomness to function this way, it must coexist with systems that give players tools to manage risk and feel responsible for outcomes. When players lose despite making thoughtful, strategic choices, the randomness feels like an adversary. When they lose because they took a gamble or ignored warning signs, the randomness feels fair, even exhilarating.
In Eldritch Horror, the balance tips too far toward the former. Too often, randomness dictates outcomes in ways that obscure the impact of player decisions. Success or failure becomes a matter of hoping for the right draw or the right die roll, rather than crafting a clever plan. This reliance on chance undermines the satisfaction of the cooperative experience, especially when compared to games like Pandemic. In Pandemic, randomness manifests through the infection deck, yet players are provided with numerous tools to mitigate and anticipate its impact. The challenge lies in managing the spread within known parameters, and victories feel earned because players can trace success to their strategic choices. Defeats are painful, but they often arise from calculated risks that did not pay off. In contrast, Eldritch Horror’s defeats can feel arbitrary, leaving players with the nagging question of why they invested time in a game where their agency seemed so limited.
This distinction highlights a fundamental truth about gaming: players crave the illusion, if not the reality, of control. Even in genres that embrace chaos, such as party games or light fillers, players want to feel that their choices matter, even if outcomes are uncertain. Rolling dice in a push-your-luck game feels satisfying because players decide how far to press their fortune. Drawing cards in a deck-building game feels meaningful because the deck reflects prior decisions. What frustrates players is not randomness itself, but randomness that negates or ignores their contributions. When a long and difficult path is erased by a single random event, frustration is inevitable.
The issue is further complicated by the thematic framing of a game. In the case of Eldritch Horror, the theme of cosmic horror lends itself naturally to futility. Lovecraft’s works often emphasize the insignificance of human efforts against incomprehensible forces. From this perspective, the randomness of Eldritch Horror could be seen as a feature rather than a flaw, reinforcing the narrative that investigators are pawns in a hostile universe. Yet while this alignment of theme and mechanic may be intellectually consistent, it is not necessarily enjoyable in practice. The experience of spending hours navigating a game only to be undone by an unavoidable event may mirror the despair of Lovecraft’s fiction, but it does not satisfy the expectations of players seeking meaningful engagement. A work of fiction can end with inevitable doom and still be rewarding because the reader is a passive observer. A game, however, demands participation, and participation without impact undermines the purpose of play.
This tension between theme and playability raises broader questions about the design of narrative-driven games. Should mechanics always serve theme, even at the cost of agency? Or should they prioritize player engagement, even if it means compromising thematic fidelity? Different games resolve this tension in different ways. Some lean heavily into storytelling, accepting a degree of randomness as part of the experience. Others pare back narrative elements in order to focus on strategic clarity. Eldritch Horror attempts to do both but ends up struggling to satisfy either camp fully. For players who value immersive narrative, the randomness may be tolerable. For players who value agency and strategy, it becomes a barrier to enjoyment.
Reflecting on these frustrations reveals another dimension of why randomness can be so divisive: the investment of time. A short game that ends in random disaster may provoke laughter and shrugs, while a long game that collapses under arbitrary events provokes anger and regret. The longer the game, the more players expect their choices to matter, and the harsher the disappointment when they do not. Eldritch Horror, with its sprawling board, multiple decks of cards, and lengthy playtime, amplifies the consequences of randomness. What might be forgivable in a 30-minute filler becomes intolerable in a three-hour epic. The opportunity cost is too high, and players naturally resent having their time dismissed so casually.
The personal decision to abandon Eldritch Horror after a handful of plays speaks to this reality. Even the allure of Lovecraft’s mythos could not compensate for the frustration of investing hours only to be met with arbitrary setbacks. The game’s design may appeal to others, and indeed it has many fans, but for those who prioritize agency, it represents a cautionary tale about the dangers of unmoderated randomness. It underscores the importance of clarity in what a game offers: is it a strategic puzzle, a storytelling device, or a chaotic simulation of futility? When a game straddles these categories without satisfying them, it risks alienating its players.
This reflection extends beyond a single title and touches on the broader culture of gaming. Randomness is a design choice, and different communities have different tolerances for it. Some groups revel in chaos, embracing dice rolls and card flips as part of the fun. Others prefer deterministic systems where victory or defeat hinges squarely on decisions. Conflict arises when expectations do not align with design. A group expecting a strategic experience may feel betrayed by randomness, while a group expecting wild swings of fortune may feel bored by predictability. Understanding these preferences is crucial for both designers and players. For designers, it shapes how they communicate the nature of their games. For players, it shapes how they choose and approach titles.
In the end, the struggle between randomness and control reflects a deeper truth about why we play games at all. Games are unique among art forms because they require participation. They invite us to make choices, to take risks, to adapt to uncertainty. Randomness injects the thrill of the unknown, but control ensures that our engagement has meaning. The balance between the two is delicate, and when it tips too far in either direction, the experience suffers. Too much control can feel sterile, reducing play to rote optimization. Too much randomness can feel meaningless, reducing play to helpless observation. The sweet spot lies somewhere in between, where uncertainty creates tension but choices still matter.
For those who value agency, Eldritch Horror serves as a reminder that not every thematic promise translates into satisfying play. It also illustrates the importance of aligning expectations with reality. Entering the game with the understanding that randomness dominates may soften the disappointment, allowing players to approach it as an experiential narrative rather than a strategic puzzle. Yet for those seeking engagement through meaningful choice, it remains a cautionary example of how randomness, when left unchecked, can erode the very foundation of play.
The Fragile Nature of Social Interaction in Games
Tabletop gaming is not just about rules, mechanics, or even theme. At its core, it is a social experience. People gather around a table not merely to push pieces or tally scores, but to interact, to laugh, to scheme, and to compete. Some of the most popular modern games lean heavily on this social aspect, designing mechanics that act less as a puzzle to be solved and more as a stage for players to perform. Among these, social deduction games stand out. Titles like The Resistance, Werewolf, and Coup thrive on bluffing, deception, and the interplay of trust and suspicion. They rely less on rule complexity and more on the personalities at the table. Yet it is precisely this reliance on human dynamics that makes them both exhilarating and fragile. A game can soar to unforgettable heights with the right group but fall flat with the wrong one. The experience of playing Secret Hitler illustrates both the promise and the disappointment of this fragile formula.
Secret Hitler arrived with a burst of attention, fueled by its striking theme and distinctive artwork. The premise is inherently provocative: players assume roles in pre–World War II Germany, with some secretly working to undermine democracy and install a fascist regime. The title itself was daring, immediately sparking conversation and curiosity. For players already familiar with social deduction games, it promised something new, something more dramatic, perhaps even revolutionary. The Kickstarter campaign emphasized its differences from predecessors, suggesting that this was more than an incremental variation—it was a leap forward for the genre. For a group already fond of deduction and deception games, the allure was undeniable.
The first play, however, told a different story. After carefully constructing a print-and-play version and gathering the group, expectations ran high. The theme and presentation did not disappoint; the aesthetic was bold and evocative, and the mechanics felt polished. Yet as the game unfolded, the anticipated spark of energy never truly ignited. Instead of electrifying debate, laughter, and accusations, the session unfolded with a muted rhythm. Decisions felt procedural rather than dramatic, and accusations lacked the weight that makes social deduction so thrilling. By the end, the sense of revelation was not “this changes everything” but “oh, that’s all?” The game was competent, but it did not deliver the revolutionary experience that had been promised.
The disappointment here lies in how fragile the social foundation of such games can be. Social deduction titles are not self-contained systems in the way a Eurogame might be. They are frameworks for interaction, and their success depends heavily on the players themselves. A group that is shy, cautious, or simply not in the mood for deception may create a subdued experience. Conversely, a group of boisterous, theatrical players can elevate even a simple design into an unforgettable drama. The tension of suspicion, the joy of a well-executed bluff, and the laughter of dramatic accusations all depend on people leaning into the spirit of the game. Without this, even the most carefully crafted mechanics fall flat.
This raises an important truth about social games: they are as much about performance as play. Sitting down to a social deduction game requires a willingness to lie, accuse, and feign conviction. For some, this comes naturally, and they relish the opportunity to act and manipulate. For others, it feels uncomfortable, even stressful. The variability in comfort levels means that the same game can produce wildly different outcomes across groups. A single reluctant player can dampen the energy of the entire table. This fragility is both the strength and weakness of the genre. When it works, it creates stories that players retell for years. When it fails, it leaves little behind but disappointment and awkwardness.
The case of Secret Hitler also reveals something about how expectations shape these experiences. Because the game arrived with so much hype, fueled by bold marketing and provocative design, players expected it to transform the genre. Instead, it felt more like an iterative variation, adding interesting wrinkles but not reinventing the wheel. The disappointment was not that the game was bad—it functioned well and had moments of tension—but that it failed to live up to its revolutionary promise. The Resistance had already set a high bar, offering elegant mechanics that distilled deception into its purest form. Secret Hitler, by comparison, felt like an elaboration rather than a leap forward. For players hoping for something entirely new, this gap between expectation and reality loomed large.
This dynamic raises broader questions about the role of innovation in game design. Not every new title can or should reinvent a genre. Iterative design—taking a proven formula and adding small improvements—can be valuable. Yet when marketing frames a game as groundbreaking, players approach with heightened expectations. If the gameplay experience then feels familiar, disappointment is inevitable. This was the case with Secret Hitler: marketed as revolutionary, experienced as incremental. The game may succeed brilliantly with players new to the genre, but for those already steeped in social deduction, it feels less impactful.
Another factor that influences social deduction games is group chemistry. Unlike deterministic games where mechanics drive outcomes regardless of personalities, social games are heavily shaped by who is playing. A group of close friends may approach Secret Hitler with inside jokes, playful accusations, and an understanding of each other’s tells. This can elevate the experience and make even simple mechanics feel vibrant. A group of acquaintances, however, may play more cautiously, unwilling to push too hard or accuse too boldly. Without that energy, the game can feel procedural. This variability makes social deduction games difficult to evaluate objectively. A review based on one group’s experience may differ wildly from another’s, and both can be true.
Reflecting on the muted experience of Secret Hitler reveals another important lesson: not every game is suited to every group. Some groups thrive on quiet calculation, enjoying the puzzle-like nature of Eurogames. Others thrive on chaos, preferring party games that generate laughter and silliness. Social deduction sits in a delicate middle ground, requiring both strategic thought and performative energy. If a group leans too heavily one way or the other, the experience falters. This does not make the game inherently flawed, but it does mean that enjoyment is conditional. For players seeking consistency, this conditionality can be frustrating. They want a game that delivers reliably, regardless of mood or group dynamics. Social deduction games rarely offer that guarantee.
The contrast with other genres is instructive. In a deck-building game, the mechanics ensure that even a subdued group can still engage meaningfully. The structure of drawing cards, building a deck, and executing combos provides a self-sustaining rhythm. In contrast, a social deduction game offers only a scaffold, leaving the players to construct the drama themselves. When that scaffolding is not filled with energy, the result is hollow. The disappointment of Secret Hitler, then, was not just about unmet expectations of innovation but about the realization that the group’s energy did not align with what the game required.
This fragility extends beyond Secret Hitler and speaks to the broader challenge of designing social games. How can a game encourage energy and performance without forcing it? How can it provide structure without stifling spontaneity? Designers have experimented with various approaches: timers to create urgency, hidden roles to generate suspicion, and voting mechanics to encourage debate. Each seeks to channel player behavior, but none can guarantee success. Ultimately, the success of a social deduction game rests on the willingness of players to engage with each other in a spirit of play. When that engagement is absent, no design can compensate.
The broader takeaway from these reflections is that social interaction in games is both precious and precarious. It is precious because it creates experiences that cannot be replicated by digital games or solitary puzzles. The laughter, the tension, the shared stories—all stem from the alchemy of people around a table. It is precarious because it relies on human dynamics that are unpredictable and inconsistent. The same game can be brilliant one night and dull the next, depending on the mix of personalities and moods. This variability makes social deduction games polarizing. Some players treasure them as the pinnacle of interactive play, while others avoid them entirely, unwilling to stake their enjoyment on such uncertain foundations.
For players, the lesson is to approach social games with realistic expectations. Not every session will be electric, and not every group will be suited to deception and bluffing. Recognizing this can soften the disappointment when a game like Secret Hitler falls flat. For designers, the lesson is to be cautious in how they frame their creations. Promising revolution when offering iteration risks alienating experienced players. Framing a game as a variation on a beloved genre, by contrast, can set expectations more appropriately and allow players to appreciate incremental improvements for what they are.
Ultimately, the experience of playing Secret Hitler was not one of disaster but of deflation. It was a reminder that hype can set the bar too high, that group dynamics can make or break social games, and that not every title will resonate with every audience. The disappointment was real, but it also underscored the beauty of the hobby: that every game offers a unique intersection of design, theme, and human interaction. Sometimes that intersection creates magic. Sometimes it creates silence. Both outcomes are part of the unpredictable, fragile nature of social play.
Trust, Community, and the Fragility of Gaming Commerce
The tabletop hobby has always existed in a delicate balance between passion and commerce. Unlike mass-market products where distribution is dominated by global chains and faceless logistics, the world of hobby gaming has been sustained for decades by a network of small retailers, local stores, and passionate distributors who live and breathe the games they sell. For players, these businesses are not just suppliers but anchors of the community. They introduce new titles, foster play spaces, and connect enthusiasts with each other. When such a business falters, the effects ripple far beyond a single failed transaction. The collapse of trust between retailer and consumer can scar an entire community, leaving a lingering sense of loss.
The story of Milsims captures this phenomenon vividly. Once regarded as a cornerstone of Australian gaming retail, Milsims had earned a reputation for low prices and a wide selection. For many, it was the default destination when money was tight or when rare titles were hard to find. Service might not have been exemplary, but it was functional enough to keep customers coming back. A delayed order here or a stock miscommunication there could be forgiven when the value was undeniable. For years, this calculation defined the relationship: in exchange for enduring a few frustrations, customers received affordable access to their hobby.
But cracks began to show. Delays lengthened, communication deteriorated, and the once-manageable frustrations escalated into serious grievances. Emails went unanswered, phone calls were ignored, and orders sat unshipped for months. What had been a matter of patience became a matter of trust. Customers began to question whether their money was safe, whether the games they had paid for would ever arrive. The transactional relationship between consumer and retailer depends on a bedrock of confidence: when I give you my money, I trust that you will provide the product in return. When that trust is broken, no discount is sufficient to restore it.
The fallout was dramatic. Customers who once tolerated poor service in exchange for savings began to migrate elsewhere, discovering competitors who offered not only reliability but also respect. They found businesses that answered emails promptly, provided updates on delayed orders, and treated customers as valued participants rather than inconveniences. In contrast, the silence from Milsims felt not just unprofessional but contemptuous. The deterioration of service was not merely a logistical issue but a failure of relationship. The company’s collapse into insolvency, and the investigations that followed, became almost inevitable once that trust had eroded.
The impact extended beyond the immediate losses of money and undelivered games. For the Australian gaming community, the fall of such a prominent retailer was a shockwave. Milsims had been more than a store; it had been a hub, a source, a name that carried weight. Other stores had relied on it for sourcing, and players had relied on it as a dependable pillar of the hobby. Its disappearance created not only a practical gap but also an emotional one. Communities that had grown accustomed to its presence were forced to reorient, to seek out alternatives, and to reconsider what they valued in their retail relationships.
This episode highlights a broader truth about commerce in hobbyist spaces: money is not the only currency. Loyalty, trust, and community matter just as much, often more. Consumers may tolerate lower prices at the cost of service in the short term, but over time, respect and reliability prove more sustainable. A retailer that treats its customers as partners in a shared hobby fosters bonds that transcend individual transactions. Customers in turn reward this with repeat business and word-of-mouth support. When these bonds are broken, the consequences are swift and unforgiving.
It is instructive to compare this collapse with the resilience of smaller, community-focused stores. Local game shops, for example, often cannot compete with the deep discounts of online giants. Yet they survive—and sometimes thrive—because they offer something more valuable than the lowest price. They provide spaces to play, staff who recommend titles with genuine passion, and the simple assurance that when you pay for something, you will receive it without uncertainty. They become part of the fabric of the community, woven into the weekly rhythms of game nights and release events. Their success demonstrates that commerce in the hobby is not a zero-sum race to the bottom but a balance of price, service, and connection.
The Milsims episode also reveals something about how communities process betrayal. The reaction was not merely pragmatic—consumers moving their business elsewhere—but emotional. There was anger, disappointment, even grief. The sense of being mistreated was amplified by the close-knit nature of the community. In hobby spaces, word travels quickly. Forums, clubs, and local groups buzzed with stories of unfulfilled orders and unanswered queries. The collective narrative became one of betrayal, and once that narrative took hold, recovery became impossible. A single negative experience might be dismissed as an anomaly, but a pattern of neglect, shared and amplified across the community, becomes a scar that defines the company’s reputation.
For consumers, this saga prompted reflection on their own values. Many realized that chasing the lowest price was not worth the cost of anxiety and uncertainty. They discovered that peace of mind, respectful communication, and timely delivery were worth paying a little more. This shift in perspective marked a maturation of the community, moving from a purely transactional mindset to one that valued relationships. Customers began to reward stores that treated them as humans rather than invoices, and those businesses, in turn, grew stronger.
For the industry, the lesson is equally clear: in hobbyist markets, long-term success depends on cultivating trust. A business may weather the occasional delay or mistake, but once communication ceases and customers feel abandoned, the damage is irreparable. Transparency and honesty, even when delivering bad news, are preferable to silence. Customers can forgive delays when they are kept informed, but they cannot forgive being ignored. The collapse of Milsims illustrates how silence is not neutral—it is corrosive, eating away at confidence until nothing remains.
This reflection extends beyond the specifics of retail into the broader theme of trust within the hobby. At its heart, tabletop gaming is about trust: trust that rules are applied fairly, that players act in good faith, that designers respect their audiences, and that publishers deliver what they promise. When any of these forms of trust are broken, the experience falters. The collapse of a retailer is thus part of a larger pattern, a reminder that this hobby thrives on mutual respect and shared passion. Without these, the magic of gathering around a table to play is diminished.
What makes the story of Milsims particularly poignant is the sense of wasted potential. A company that had once been a leader, that had once provided invaluable access to games for an entire nation, squandered that goodwill through neglect and disregard. The collapse was not inevitable—it was the result of choices, or perhaps the refusal to make choices. It is a cautionary tale for any business operating in a niche community: success is not sustained by price alone. It is sustained by relationships, by treating customers as partners, and by respecting the trust placed in you.
For players reflecting on this collapse, the takeaway is both sobering and hopeful. Sobering because it reveals how fragile the structures that support the hobby can be; hopeful because it also reveals the resilience of the community. New retailers emerged, new relationships were forged, and the community adapted. The scar remains, but it is accompanied by growth, by a clearer understanding of what matters. In the end, the hobby is not defined by any single store or company but by the passion of those who play and share games together.
Looking back, the fall of Milsims sits alongside the disappointing plays of Shadows over Camelot, Splendor, Eldritch Horror, and Secret Hitler not as another flawed game but as a reminder of the ecosystem that sustains them. Games do not exist in isolation. They are designed, published, distributed, and sold within a network of trust and commerce. When any part of that network fails, the effects are felt at the table. The disappointment of a failed play and the disappointment of a failed retailer share a common root: expectations unmet, trust broken, and experiences soured. Yet they also share a common lesson: that resilience, reflection, and community can turn disappointment into growth.
In the end, the collapse of Milsims is not just a story of failure but a reminder of what matters most in this hobby. Not the lowest prices, not the largest catalog, but the relationships that bind players, retailers, and designers together. When those relationships are nurtured with respect and trust, the hobby flourishes. When they are neglected, the consequences are swift and unforgiving. The Australian gaming community, like many others around the world, has learned this lesson the hard way. But in learning it, it has grown stronger, more connected, and more discerning. And perhaps that is the silver lining of disappointment: that from the ashes of broken trust can rise a clearer vision of what truly sustains the games we love.
Final Reflections
Looking back across these stories of disappointment, unmet expectations, and broken trust, what emerges is not a narrative of bitterness but of growth. Shadows over Camelot showed how daunting complexity and a poor first experience can sour a game that might otherwise shine. Splendor revealed the importance of theme and emotional engagement, reminding us that elegant mechanics alone are not always enough. Eldritch Horror demonstrated how randomness without agency can turn immersion into frustration, and how time is too valuable to spend on games that do not respect it. Secret Hitler highlighted the fragile, performative nature of social interaction in gaming, and how the right or wrong group dynamic can make or break an experience. Finally, the fall of Milsims underscored the role of trust, not just between players at the table but between consumers and the businesses that sustain the hobby.
What unites these reflections is the idea that disappointment is not wasted. Each poor play, each failed expectation, and each broken promise teaches something valuable about what we seek from this pastime. We learn which mechanics spark joy, which themes resonate, and which experiences fall short. We learn that trust, whether in a friend at the table or in a retailer across the country, is the foundation upon which the hobby rests. And we learn that the stories we tell—the memories we carry—are shaped not only by triumphs but also by missteps.
It is tempting to see disappointment as a blemish, a shadow over the joy of gaming. Yet in truth, it is part of the texture of the hobby. Without the lows, the highs would not feel as meaningful. The laughter of a perfect bluff, the satisfaction of a clever combo, the thrill of a narrow victory—all are heightened by the memory of times when things did not go so well. The contrast deepens our appreciation and makes the moments of brilliance all the more special.
Perhaps most importantly, disappointment reminds us that this hobby is not static. It evolves, it matures, and so do we. Games we once adored may no longer fit our tastes, and games that once left us cold may reveal new depths with time. Retailers may rise and fall, groups may shift, and designers may surprise us in ways we never anticipated. Through it all, the community endures, adapting and growing stronger.
In the end, the true heart of gaming lies not in flawless mechanics or unbroken trust, but in the people who gather around the table. It lies in the conversations sparked, the memories forged, and the shared recognition that even when the experience is disappointing, it is still an experience shared. And that, in itself, has value.
So here’s to the failures, the frustrations, and the fiascos—because without them, we could not truly appreciate the triumphs.