Ideas for games often emerge from unexpected places, not from long sessions of forced brainstorming but from chance encounters, stray thoughts, or a simple phrase overheard at just the right time. The game that would become Jekyll vs. Hyde began with a single sentence caught in passing while returning home from a regular gathering of amateur designers. After a night of testing prototypes and trading feedback, the mind was already alive with possibilities, ideas still swirling and combining as the train sped through the city. Then came the voice of a frustrated student speaking loudly on the phone, venting about a homeroom teacher: “My teacher is Jekyll and Hyde!” That expression, uttered casually, struck like a spark on dry tinder.
For years, the dual nature of human personality had been a subject of fascination, but hearing the phrase in this ordinary moment made it feel immediate and alive. The phrase carried a charge of tension, a sense of unpredictability — someone who could be kind one moment and cruel the next, as though two people lived in the same body. It felt like the perfect metaphor for conflict, for a tug-of-war between opposing sides. And in the mind of a designer who had spent the last five years creating and refining games, it immediately presented itself as fertile ground for a new design.
Each year brought with it the chance to submit a new game to one of the board game fairs in Korea. These events were a kind of proving ground, a place where ideas could be shown to the public, where designers could gauge interest and collect real feedback. Trick-taking games had become a personal favorite during this time, a format that was endlessly versatile and elegantly compact. Unlike heavier strategy games that required elaborate boards and dozens of components, a trick-taking game could create deep tension with nothing more than a deck of cards and a clever ruleset. They were games that thrived on psychology, on reading opponents, on predicting the flow of play — all elements that matched well with the theme of internal struggle.
With that in mind, the first step was to determine the skeleton of the design. It was clear early on that the game would be for two players. Larger trick-taking games can be social and lively, but the presence of four players also dilutes the intensity of the head-to-head experience. A two-player game, on the other hand, creates a duel. Every decision matters more, every win or loss is personal, and there is nowhere to hide when a mistake is made. The choice of a tug-of-war format was a natural consequence of this thinking — a central marker or token could represent the balance between Jekyll and Hyde, sliding back and forth with every power shift.
Choosing this thematic framework also unlocked the decision to make the game asymmetrical. Jekyll and Hyde are not interchangeable characters but two sides of the same man, one driven by reason and morality, the other by impulse and darkness. A symmetrical game, where both players have identical goals and abilities, would miss that essential truth. Instead, the design would give each player slightly different objectives or incentives, creating an unequal tension that better reflected the literary inspiration. One player would push toward chaos, while the other would try to maintain stability, each battling for control of the shared identity represented by the track.
But theme alone does not make a game; mechanics are what transform theme into play. The question quickly became how to measure victory, how to turn the act of taking tricks into progress along the tug-of-war track. A traditional scoring system, where players are rewarded for winning a set number of tricks or for capturing cards of a certain suit, felt too static. It also felt like it would rely too heavily on the initial deal of cards, punishing players who drew poorly through no fault of their own. There needed to be a system that rewarded clever play even with a weak hand.
The breakthrough came from reflecting on two-player trick-taking games already on the market. The Fox in the Forest was a particular inspiration. It had shown how you could create tension by making too many victories a liability, forcing players to carefully calibrate their performance. Taking every trick was not always the goal; sometimes the clever move was to lose intentionally. That was precisely the kind of push-pull experience that would suit a game about Jekyll and Hyde. The idea emerged to base scoring not on absolute counts but on differences. If one player took many more tricks than the other, the marker would slide farther toward their side. If the round was evenly matched, the marker would barely move.
This created a delightful paradox — players now had to consider not just whether they could win a trick but whether they should. The objective was no longer simply to dominate but to find a balance or deliberately disrupt it. This mechanism also allowed for moments where a weak hand could still achieve something valuable, because even taking a few tricks to narrow the gap could prevent a disastrous swing on the track. The tension of every card play became sharper as the implications of each trick went beyond a simple tally of wins.
The next step was to consider how to keep the game dynamic. In many trick-taking games, the trump suit is determined at the start of the round, and that decision casts a long shadow over everything that follows. This can create a sense of inevitability — once players understand the distribution of suits, they can often predict the outcome of future tricks with grim certainty. For a game about chaos, unpredictability, and transformation, that kind of determinism felt wrong. The solution was to allow the power of suits to change dynamically based on the order in which they were played. The first suit to appear would be the weakest, and the suit introduced later would carry more strength, with the final one played becoming the most powerful.
This innovation not only kept players guessing but also gave them meaningful choices with every card play. Leading with a suit meant potentially declaring it the weakest, while holding back a suit could ensure its dominance later in the round. Suddenly, there was a new layer of strategy — players were not just managing the cards in their hand but shaping the very hierarchy of the game as it unfolded. This system perfectly echoed the theme, as the balance of power between Jekyll and Hyde could shift suddenly and dramatically, just as the strength of a suit could rise or fall depending on when it entered play.
These ideas formed the foundation of the game, but there was still much to refine. The game needed moments of surprise, dramatic turns that could swing the round unexpectedly. It needed tools for each player to influence not only the tricks but the flow of the game as a whole. And it needed to ensure that neither side felt helpless — that even when the cards seemed unfavorable, clever play could still produce satisfying results. This would lead to the introduction of special cards, thematic elements, and clever balancing mechanisms, but all of that was still ahead. For now, the concept stood as a strong skeleton: a two-player, asymmetric, trick-taking tug-of-war where every trick counted, but not always in the way players might expect.
The designer left that train ride with excitement buzzing in the mind. A phrase overheard in annoyance had become the seed for a duel of wills, a game that would capture the essence of one of literature’s most famous struggles. The next steps would be to transform that idea into a working prototype, to experiment with scoring tracks and card hierarchies, and to begin the long process of testing and revision that would turn inspiration into reality. The path would be filled with experiments, dead ends, and moments of sudden clarity, but the heart of the game — the clash between light and dark within the same frame — had been born that day.
Prototyping and Early Experiments
Once the basic concept was in place — a two-player asymmetric trick-taking tug-of-war game with a scoring track — the next challenge was turning that idea into something playable. This stage of design is always a leap into the unknown. An idea can feel perfect in theory, but only when the first cards are printed and shuffled does it reveal whether it truly works as a game. Early prototypes do not need to be beautiful; they need to be functional. Index cards, scribbles, and hastily drawn icons were enough to get a working deck together.
The first play sessions were exciting simply because the idea had taken tangible form. A rough track was drawn on paper to measure the shifting balance between the two sides. It was thrilling to see the marker slide back and forth with each round of tricks, giving a visual representation of the tug-of-war at the heart of the design. But very quickly, the first lessons appeared. A purely mechanical representation of the theme was not enough to make the game sing. The early sessions felt a little flat, predictable even, because there was little to break the rhythm or challenge assumptions once the cards were dealt.
This feedback prompted a deeper look at how to inject variability into the system. It was not enough for the game to simply have a clever scoring system; it needed moments of tension, surprise, and drama. The first idea was to give one of the players — specifically, the one representing Hyde — a set of special abilities that could be chosen each round. This would reflect the idea that Hyde grows stronger as the story progresses, gaining confidence and influence over the shared identity.
The abilities were thematic: increasing the number of tricks in the round to prolong the battle, allowing a small mulligan to change the composition of the hand, and even bending the rules to play a card outside of the normal constraints. These abilities were clever on paper, but when tested, they failed to create the desired impact. They made the game more complicated without making it more interesting. More importantly, they had the unintended effect of making Hyde seem overpowered in ways that were not necessarily fun. The design needed to ensure that while Hyde was dangerous, Jekyll had meaningful tools to resist and fight back.
The idea of introducing special cards with unique effects became the next avenue of exploration. This approach had a natural connection to the story: the novel features Dr. Jekyll’s experiments with potions that transform him into Hyde, a motif ripe for mechanical interpretation. The potion card emerged as a way to break the normal rules of play. Unlike ordinary cards, the potion would have a variable effect determined not by its own suit but by the card played by the opponent in the same trick. This created a dynamic interaction, forcing both players to think carefully not just about their own move but about what their opponent might play in response.
The introduction of the potion card brought the game to life. Suddenly, there were moments of surprise — a trick that seemed lost could be turned on its head, or a carefully built strategy could be disrupted in a single play. The potion card was not inherently good or bad; it was situational, sometimes benefiting the player who played it, sometimes turning into a liability. This dual nature perfectly matched the theme of transformation, where Jekyll’s attempt to control his darker side leads to unintended consequences.
Of course, new mechanics always bring new challenges. Early playtests revealed that the potion card could dominate the game too easily. If a player managed to collect several potion cards, they had a disproportionate level of control over the flow of the round. This unbalanced the game, making it frustrating for the opponent. To fix this, a new rule was introduced: players were required to exchange cards at the start of each round, and those holding multiple potion cards were obligated to pass at least one of them to their opponent. This small but crucial rule kept the distribution of power in check, ensuring that neither side could monopolize the most influential cards.
Another critical insight emerged during these tests. It was not enough for the potion card to simply create chaos; it also had to generate meaningful choices. If the effect of a potion card was too random or too strong, it risked making the outcome of the game feel arbitrary. But if its effects were too mild, it would fail to create the moments of excitement that players craved. The balance had to be struck so that potion cards added spice without overwhelming the core trick-taking structure.
To achieve this, the potion effects were carefully refined. Initially, they had elaborate rules that involved swapping strong or weak cards, resetting suit order, or dramatically altering the state of the game. These rules were clever but cumbersome, slowing down play as players paused to interpret them. Over time, the effects were streamlined to focus on two key ideas: card exchange and suit order reset. These changes kept the game flowing smoothly while still delivering the feeling of a sudden twist that could change the outcome of a round.
Through all of this iteration, the designer kept returning to the idea of balance — not just in the mechanical sense of fair play, but in the thematic sense of Jekyll’s quest to reconcile the good and evil within himself. The track that measured progress became more than just a scoreboard; it became the beating heart of the game. Watching the marker edge closer to one side or the other created a tangible sense of tension, as though the identity of the character was literally being pulled apart in front of the players’ eyes.
The suits and their shifting power hierarchy also evolved during this phase. Early versions of the game sometimes felt too predictable if the same suit was always strongest or weakest. Allowing the order of strength to be determined dynamically during play turned each round into a small puzzle. Players had to think several tricks ahead, considering whether revealing a suit early might weaken it too much or whether holding it back could set up a decisive strike later. This system became one of the most distinctive aspects of the game, offering a layer of strategy that kept each session fresh.
As the prototype became more polished, the joy of playtesting grew. Each iteration brought discoveries, both for the designer and for the players who were kind enough to sit down and try it. Some of the most satisfying moments came when players were visibly surprised by the outcome of a trick, leaning back in their chairs with a laugh or a groan. Those reactions were proof that the game was delivering what it promised: a tense, thematic duel where every card play mattered.
At the same time, there were moments of frustration — rounds where one player felt helpless, unable to stop the slide of the marker toward defeat. These moments were invaluable, as they highlighted where the design still needed adjustment. The goal was never to eliminate tension but to ensure that even when a player was behind, they could still feel that a comeback was possible. This philosophy guided many of the tweaks to card values, potion effects, and track progression.
By this point, the game had evolved far from the simple idea sketched out on that train ride. It had grown into a rich experience with multiple layers of strategy, dramatic moments, and a strong connection to its source material. But it was still not complete. The next phase would involve bringing in outside perspectives, submitting the game for broader feedback, and considering how the visual presentation — the artwork, components, and physical design — could enhance the theme.
Broad Playtesting and Collaboration with a Publisher
With a stable prototype in hand, the next challenge was exposing the game to players beyond the immediate circle of trusted testers. This is one of the most difficult yet rewarding stages of board game development because it allows a designer to see how fresh players, unfamiliar with the design’s history, interact with the game. These sessions often reveal problems that close collaborators have become blind to, as well as uncover hidden strengths that even the designer may not have appreciated.
In the case of this design, the early external feedback was encouraging. Testers consistently praised the core idea of a tug-of-war trick-taking game, and many commented on how thematic the experience felt despite the minimalism of the components. The sliding track became a focal point of conversation, with players expressing how satisfying it felt to physically move the marker toward the opponent’s side. The tactile nature of this movement enhanced the sense of struggle that the game was meant to evoke.
However, some playtesters raised valid concerns. Several noted that the game could feel too one-sided if a player had an exceptionally good hand, as there was no effective way to mitigate a bad draw. Others suggested that the potion cards, while fun, sometimes swung the game too dramatically in favor of the person who held them, making the outcome feel less skill-based. This echoed earlier observations and reaffirmed that the card exchange rule was crucial to maintaining balance.
Responding to this feedback required a careful balancing act. The design could not become so random that strategy was meaningless, nor could it be so deterministic that the player with the strongest hand always won. The iterative process led to fine adjustments of card values and suit interactions. Some numbers were tweaked to ensure that no single suit dominated play, and the distribution of potion cards was subtly adjusted to avoid overwhelming the deck.
Once these refinements were made, the designer began seeking a publisher that would understand and appreciate the game’s vision. Pitching a game can be as nerve-racking as designing it, because it involves placing trust in another party to take the concept and carry it to market. Fortunately, the game found a home with a publisher that immediately saw its potential. This was a turning point — not only was the game now on the path to production, but it would also receive the attention of professional developers, graphic designers, and artists who could elevate it to a polished product.
One of the most thrilling moments in the development process came when the publisher revealed that the artwork would be created by Vincent Dutrait, a celebrated illustrator known for his distinctive style and atmospheric compositions. His involvement was a perfect match for the theme of Jekyll vs. Hyde, as his ability to convey mood and tension through line and color added a new dimension to the experience.
When the first sketches and concept art arrived, they immediately transformed the perception of the game. Where once there had been placeholder symbols and rough sketches, there were now evocative images that captured the duality of Jekyll and Hyde. The characters were depicted not just as static figures but as living personalities, full of emotion and energy. The potions, the suits, and even the track itself seemed to come alive under Dutrait’s brush.
Artwork is more than decoration in a board game — it shapes the way players approach the game emotionally. In this case, the art made the game feel richer, deeper, and more dramatic. It reinforced the sense that players were not simply moving wooden pieces and playing numbered cards, but engaging in a battle for the soul of a single man. This layer of immersion encouraged players to invest more fully in the experience, taking risks and savoring their victories and defeats.
The collaboration with the publisher also brought a new level of attention to component quality. Decisions had to be made about card size, the material for the track marker, and the overall box design. These may seem like small details, but they affect how satisfying the game is to play. For example, a flimsy track could undermine the feeling of tension, whereas a sturdy and well-printed one would make each movement feel weighty and significant.
Playtesting continued during this phase, with an emphasis on ensuring that the final production version would be as smooth as possible. Each new round of testing with near-final components provided opportunities to verify that the rules were intuitive, the iconography was clear, and the balance still held up with a wider audience. This is where the game’s accessibility was truly tested. Players who had never seen the prototype before needed to be able to sit down, learn the rules quickly, and start playing without confusion.
The potion cards, still the most distinctive and potentially volatile part of the design, received particular scrutiny. Their effects had already been simplified to focus on card exchange and suit order reset, but now the wording of the rules and the graphic design of the cards were refined to make their use as seamless as possible. The goal was to avoid any hesitation during play that might break the fast-paced rhythm of the trick-taking structure.
One of the most satisfying outcomes of this phase was seeing players fully engage with the psychological dimension of the game. Because each trick contributed to the overall tug-of-war, players found themselves bluffing, baiting, and strategizing several moves ahead. The asymmetry between Jekyll and Hyde encouraged different play styles, with Hyde pushing aggressively to dominate and Jekyll focusing on careful control and moderation. This dynamic captured the theme at a mechanical level, giving players the sense that they were inhabiting these roles rather than merely playing cards.
The game’s pacing also benefited from these final rounds of testing. Early concerns that rounds could drag on were largely eliminated once players became familiar with the flow. The built-in limit on the number of rounds ensured that the game ended within a satisfying window, keeping it tense and replayable. Players frequently expressed the desire to play again immediately, a strong indicator that the design was achieving its goal of being both accessible and compelling.
With each iteration, the game grew closer to its final form. The track felt just right, the suits created interesting choices without being overwhelming, and the potion cards struck a balance between chaos and control. The thematic and mechanical elements were working in harmony, and the physical production was shaping up to be as beautiful as it was functional.
This phase of development was both exhausting and exhilarating. There were moments of doubt — as there always are in creative work — but also moments of triumph as the vision that had begun years earlier on a subway ride was finally coming together. Seeing other people enjoy the game was the ultimate validation, proving that the idea had transcended the designer’s personal imagination and become a shared experience that could bring joy to players around the world.
With the core design locked in and the production process underway, attention could now turn to preparing the game for its release. This meant not only finalizing the rules and components but also thinking about how to present the game to the public, how to explain its unique mechanics, and how to invite players into its world. The final stretch was in sight, and with it the promise of seeing the game take its place on tables everywhere.
Final Production, Release, and Reflection
As the design moved from development into final production, the sense of anticipation grew. This was the stage where every small detail had to be checked and rechecked. Rules were proofread and tested not just for clarity but also for tone, ensuring they matched the atmosphere of the game. The language had to be precise enough to avoid confusion, yet accessible enough to welcome casual players. The rulebook was organized to teach the game step by step, allowing players to begin playing with minimal friction.
The artwork by Vincent Dutrait continued to play a central role in shaping the game’s identity. Each card illustration was reviewed carefully, not only for aesthetic quality but also for clarity and functionality. In a game where the number on the card and its suit are crucial to play, the design had to make these features instantly recognizable. The color palette was chosen with care, balancing visual drama with practical readability. The result was a deck that looked like it belonged to the gothic world of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde while remaining easy to use at the table.
Component quality was another focus. The publisher understood that a physical tug-of-war needed to feel substantial, so the central track was made sturdy and visually striking. The marker that slid back and forth was given just enough heft to feel satisfying in the hand. These small production choices might seem secondary to the design, but they greatly enhanced the experience. A flimsy or poorly printed component could have undermined the entire theme by making the struggle feel inconsequential, whereas a well-crafted track made every movement dramatic.
Pre-production copies were sent out to selected reviewers and playtesters to generate buzz and collect final feedback. The early response was promising. Reviewers highlighted the originality of combining trick-taking mechanics with a tug-of-war system, and many praised the tension the game created. They noted that even players who usually avoided trick-taking games found themselves enjoying the quick rounds and dramatic swings. The asymmetric roles were particularly well received, with players appreciating the way they encouraged distinct strategies and mindsets.
As the game approached release, the designer reflected on the long journey it had taken to reach this point. What had begun as a casual idea overheard in a subway station had grown into a polished and market-ready product. Each step along the way — the initial prototype, the many iterations of testing, the balancing of potion cards, the collaboration with the publisher — had shaped the game into something that felt cohesive and true to its theme.
The official launch was a moment of both excitement and vulnerability. Once the game was in the hands of players, it no longer belonged solely to the designer. People would interpret it in their own ways, discover strategies that had not been anticipated, and decide for themselves whether it deserved a place on their shelves. Fortunately, the release was met with enthusiasm. Players shared photos and stories of their matches, describing how intense and competitive the game became. Some players developed house rules or custom variants, further proving that the core design inspired creativity and engagement.
One of the most gratifying aspects of the release was seeing the game reach international markets. The partnership with Mandoo Games and their willingness to export the title meant that Jekyll vs. Hyde could be played in different languages and cultures. The universal appeal of its theme — the internal struggle between good and evil — resonated across borders. Even players who were unfamiliar with the original novella could appreciate the idea of two opposing forces locked in conflict.
The designer also had the chance to reflect on how the final product honored the source material. Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is a story about identity, morality, and the dangers of losing control. By creating a game that constantly forced players to balance aggression with restraint, risk with caution, the design captured the essence of that struggle. It was not simply about winning tricks but about managing the difference between victories and losses in a way that mirrored Jekyll’s attempt to manage his darker side.
Community feedback after release provided new insights into how the game was being experienced. Some players noted that the learning curve was surprisingly gentle for a trick-taking game, making it a good introduction for people unfamiliar with the genre. Others praised its replayability, observing that no two sessions felt quite the same thanks to the shifting suit order and potion card effects. This variability encouraged repeated plays, often in quick succession, as players sought revenge or tried new strategies.
The game also sparked discussions about asymmetry in design. Because Jekyll and Hyde approach the game differently, players had to experiment with both sides to fully appreciate its depth. Many found that they preferred one role over the other, leading to playful arguments about who would take which side in a given session. This dynamic kept the game fresh and competitive, ensuring that it remained a favorite on many game nights.
For the designer, one of the most memorable moments came when the first physical copy arrived. Holding the finished box, opening it to see the printed cards, the illustrated rulebook, and the crafted components was a deeply emotional experience. It was a reminder that all the late nights of testing, the countless revisions, and the difficult decisions had been worth it. There is a unique satisfaction in seeing an idea become real, something that can be shared with others around the world.
The release also marked a milestone in the designer’s career. Signing a contract with a publisher had been a first, and seeing the game produced to such a high standard was both humbling and motivating. It proved that small ideas, even those sparked by casual conversation, can grow into something significant with enough dedication and refinement. This success encouraged the designer to keep creating, to keep exploring new concepts and mechanics in the hope of bringing more memorable experiences to players.
Even after the launch, the game continued to evolve in the minds of players. Some groups experimented with alternate scoring tracks or ways to adjust difficulty between Jekyll and Hyde. Others incorporated thematic flourishes, such as reading quotes from the novella before playing, to heighten the sense of drama. The fact that the game could inspire such creativity was seen as one of its greatest achievements.
Ultimately, Jekyll vs. Hyde became more than just a card game. It became a reflection of its designer’s philosophy: that games can tell stories not just through text or narration but through the way they make players feel and the decisions they ask them to make. By blending theme and mechanics so tightly, the game created a narrative arc each time it was played — a story of balance, struggle, and transformation.
Looking back, the designer expressed deep gratitude to everyone who had contributed to the journey: the early playtesters who offered honest feedback, the publisher who believed in the project, the artist who brought the characters to life, and the players who welcomed the game into their homes. Each of these contributions was essential in turning a fleeting idea into a lasting creation.
As the game continues to find new audiences, its impact grows. It demonstrates that there is still room for innovation in classic genres like trick-taking and that even a familiar story like that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde can be experienced in fresh and interactive ways. More importantly, it stands as proof that passion and perseverance can turn inspiration into reality — a lesson that resonates with aspiring designers and seasoned creators alike.
The journey of Jekyll vs. Hyde is a reminder that game design is both art and craft, requiring imagination, discipline, and a willingness to iterate until every piece clicks into place. And when it does, the result is something that can bring people together, challenge their minds, and spark moments of shared joy.
Conclusion
The creation of Jekyll vs. Hyde is a testament to the power of persistence, iteration, and the pursuit of balance — both in game mechanics and in theme. What began as a passing moment of inspiration on a subway platform grew into a carefully refined experience that captured the essence of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic tale. Through countless prototypes, playtests, and revisions, the design evolved from a simple tug-of-war idea into a fully realized game where every decision carries weight and every trick feels meaningful.
The involvement of skilled collaborators, from publishers to artist Vincent Dutrait, elevated the project beyond its humble beginnings. Their contributions transformed rough sketches into an elegant production that visually and physically reinforced the story of duality at the heart of the game.
Most importantly, the finished game resonated with players. Its quick pace, clever asymmetry, and capacity for surprise gave it staying power at the table. Each match becomes a miniature drama — a contest of control, risk, and timing that mirrors Jekyll’s own internal struggle.
In the end, Jekyll vs. Hyde stands not just as a clever card game but as a celebration of creative vision, thematic storytelling, and the shared joy of play.