July always carries with it the expectation of warmth, but this past one redefined the word. Meteorologists labeled it a “heat dome,” and it wasn’t an exaggeration. The relentless pressure of the summer sun pressed down for days at a time, giving little reprieve in either late June or across the month that followed. The air felt heavy, the ground seemed to shimmer, and simply being outside for any extended period was an act of endurance.
For families like mine, July is traditionally a season of vacations, outdoor excursions, and a step away from the ordinary rhythm of work and schedules. This year, our chosen destination was the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, a place well known for its misty ridges and winding forest paths. The beauty of the Smokies is undeniable: the rolling green horizons stretch into the distance, and even on the hottest days there’s a timeless calm that seems woven into the mountains themselves. Yet, even there, the grip of summer couldn’t be shaken. The heat was not just present but persistent, clinging to every walk, every car ride, every stop along the way.
Vacations have their magic when they provide escape, and though there were glimpses of that—quiet mornings, shared meals, moments of laughter—the sheer number of visitors and the unrelenting weather dulled the edge of that magic. We had brought games along, as is our custom, since cardboard adventures have a way of creating memories even in unfamiliar settings. But the week yielded just two plays of a light dice game. The intention had been more ambitious; the reality was that fatigue won out more often than the dice.
This set the tone for the month as a whole. July ended with far fewer plays than months prior, but what it lacked in number it made up for in memorable moments. When the outdoors keeps you inside, and vacations don’t allow for sprawling gaming sessions, a different kind of rhythm takes over. Solo games became the mainstay, opportunities to play quietly when others were resting, or to test new systems that might not make it to the table in larger groups. In some ways, these solo moments became the heart of July, reflecting both the slower pace of play and the need for a bit of quiet exploration.
Mage Knight reemerged during this time, as it often does when solo gaming becomes a focus. It is not a light undertaking, but its layered mechanics reward the time invested. Playing Mage Knight feels like charting a personal odyssey, one where each decision creates ripples that echo through hours of play. Its return wasn’t surprising—it’s the kind of game that lingers in memory and beckons you back when the pace of life allows for it. Alongside it came newer solo discoveries, such as Vantage and Corps of Discovery. These brought fresh mechanics and narratives, and while they didn’t yet have the resonance of a long-familiar classic, they offered the promise of new journeys and challenges.
Not all play was solitary, though. Early in the month, I was able to sit across the table once more for a session of War of the Ring: Second Edition. It had been months since the last confrontation, and anticipation was high. I took the mantle of the Free Peoples, carrying the weight of Middle-earth on my shoulders. The early game seemed to favor me: Saruman fell without too much resistance, Minas Tirith held firm, and for a fleeting moment, victory seemed within reach. Yet, War of the Ring is nothing if not unpredictable. The slow advance of corruption is a shadow that hangs over every decision, and when Shelob struck, the fate of Frodo and Sam turned on a single die. The roll was cruel, ending the journey in failure after more than three hours of strategic maneuvering.
In the moment, frustration bubbled up. It felt unjust that such an elaborate contest could end with a six on a corruption tile. But perspective reshapes memory. Days later, I realized that mitigation strategies had been available, that the responsibility for the loss wasn’t on chance alone. Misjudging the timing, underestimating the risks—that was the real source of defeat. And so, what initially left a sour taste instead transformed into anticipation. The desire to return, to play again with sharper focus, to face the challenge anew—this is the enduring magic of a game like War of the Ring.
The month also carried lighter stories. One night, a member of our group, awaiting the imminent arrival of a newborn, came to play despite the due date looming over his family. With the possibility of a sudden departure hanging in the air, we opted for short titles, something he could easily step away from. The suggestion was Moon Colony Bloodbath, a game that leans into chaos and fun, and it became the opening act for what turned into an impromptu theme night. Once the call came and our friend had to leave, those remaining decided to lean into the design legacy of Donald X. Vaccarino. Dominion made its return, bringing the familiar rhythm of deck-building strategy, and Pacific, the designer’s newest creation, found its first play at our table.
These nights, however brief, serve as reminders of what makes a playgroup enduring. The themes may shift, the games may be different, but the core remains: the shared laughter, the debates over rules, the stories that last longer than the session itself. In this case, the theme was accidental but satisfying, a small celebration of a designer’s influence carried out by a group whose members were balancing life changes, vacations, and even injuries.
Indeed, July was marked by disruptions. One host suffered a torn Achilles tendon on vacation, making gatherings less frequent. Babies arrived, vacations scattered the group, and schedules clashed. Game nights became fewer, though no less meaningful when they happened. There’s a natural ebb and flow to any gaming group, and this was a low tide. Yet, just as the school year promises a return to routine, so too does it promise a return to regular gatherings and the steady cadence of weekly play.
Amid all this, there was still planning for the future. Discussions arose around which games the group wanted to invest in deeply during the coming year. Some, like Dominion, remain perennial choices, always offering new permutations and challenges. Others, like Concordia or Glory to Rome, drew votes of interest, while newer titles like The Guild of Merchant Explorers continued to intrigue. Setting these intentions gave shape to the year ahead, providing anticipation even in a month that felt sparse in comparison to others.
In reflection, July wasn’t a month defined by abundance, but by contrast. The overwhelming heat against the coolness of the mountains. The scarcity of plays against the richness of a few standout sessions. The frustrations of defeat against the eagerness for another try. Vacations and new responsibilities reshaped the rhythm, but they also highlighted what endures: the joy of discovery, the bonds of a playgroup, and the solitary satisfaction of charting one’s own path through a game world.
July may have been marked by fewer sessions, but each carried weight. Whether it was the tension of a dice roll in Middle-earth, the laughter of a theme night, or the solitary exploration of a new survival challenge, the month left behind a patchwork of moments that remain worth remembering.
Discoveries at the Table – Amsterdam and Vantage
One of the great joys of this hobby is when something new makes its way onto the table. Sometimes it is an update of an older system, reshaped with modern sensibilities. Other times it is an entirely fresh design, offering a world or set of mechanisms that haven’t been seen before. July was light on overall plays, but it held space for some striking new experiences. Two titles in particular—Amsterdam and Vantage—stood out, each for different reasons.
Amsterdam: Dice, Delays, and Decisions
Amsterdam belongs to Queen’s “city collection,” a line of games that revisits older designs with updated production and presentation. In this case, Amsterdam reimagines Macao, a game from over a decade ago that had flown under the radar for me until now. The heart of the design lies in the management of resources across time. Each round begins with dice rolls, and players must choose two of the results to take as resources. The number on the die dictates both the quantity of the resource and the delay before it arrives. A choice of a six, for example, means a flood of resources—but not until six rounds later. Choosing a two offers less, but they will arrive quickly.
This single decision each round forms the backbone of tension. Do you grab what you need now and risk falling behind later, or do you wait for larger payouts in the future? Delay is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, future planning allows for large turns where everything aligns. On the other, the game punishes rounds where you take nothing. Momentum is vital, and idleness carries a cost.
Layered onto this timing puzzle is the card system. Each round forces you to draft a new card. Cards provide powers, scoring opportunities, or obligations that must be paid with the resources you collect. Letting these pile up without paying their costs results in penalties, so you must balance not only when resources arrive but also how they are spent. The tension of delayed gratification runs headlong into the immediate demands of obligations. It is this push and pull that gives the game its richness.
Playing Amsterdam with a full group brought these tensions to life in a way that solitaire could not. Suddenly, the race for spaces on the board mattered. Suddenly, turn order had weight, and hesitation meant losing ground to an opponent. The game unfolded across multiple tracks: resources, cards, positions, and timing. Every choice rippled outward, forcing new calculations in future rounds.
The length of the play stood out. Our three-player game stretched well beyond three hours, longer than anyone anticipated. Some of that came from teaching and learning, but even accounting for that, the design is dense. There are few empty turns, and each round demands thought. While this might seem like a flaw, for me it was a sign of depth. Long though it was, the experience was satisfying, like a puzzle that takes time to see in full.
Yet I found myself curious about the original Macao. How streamlined was it? Did it move more briskly, capturing the same tension in a tighter frame? Amsterdam feels like a modern reworking with an abundance of production and perhaps an abundance of extras. The fascination remains, but the curiosity lingers too—what would the game feel like in its earlier form, less adorned, more direct?
Even with these questions, Amsterdam earned its place as one of July’s brightest moments. It was a game that lingered after the table was cleared, prompting thoughts about resource management, delayed rewards, and the ways timing shapes strategy. Games that leave you thinking days later are rare; Amsterdam did exactly that.
Vantage: Survival, Stories, and Strange Horizons
Where Amsterdam engaged through mechanisms and timing, Vantage captivated through its sense of discovery. This game begins with a premise both simple and intriguing: you have crash-landed on a foreign planet. Survival is not guaranteed, and beyond the question of staying alive lies the larger question of why you are there. What mission must be completed? What destiny awaits?
At its core, Vantage is a card-driven adventure. Each location card presents a small slice of the world, a moment frozen in possibility. On each card are six potential actions, linked to basic skills: strength, intellect, perception, and others. Players choose one action to pursue, locking away the rest. Each choice is final, pushing you further down a path of discovery.
What sets Vantage apart is the certainty of success. When you choose an action, you achieve it. The uncertainty lies not in whether it works, but in how difficult it is. Each action requires rolling challenge dice, symbols that represent obstacles or setbacks. Some choices bring just a few dice, others many. The dice are punishing, often sapping health, morale, or time. Early on, these losses feel overwhelming. It is easy to fall behind, to run out of resources before gaining a foothold. But as the character grows, as equipment and allies are found, the ability to weather the dice improves.
The result is a game that feels like learning to live within a new world. At first, every step is fraught with danger. But by paying attention to the clues on the cards, by learning the logic of the environment, players can anticipate which actions will be costly and which will be manageable. It is less about forcing the world to bend to your will and more about moving with the grain of its design. Push too hard against it, and it breaks you. Flow with it, and you find ways to survive.
What makes Vantage unusual is its approach to victory. Success can come through completing a mission, uncovering a hidden destiny, or even fulfilling a personal goal. This looseness might seem unsatisfying in theory, but in practice it creates freedom. Each play feels like a narrative arc, a story that begins with desperation and ends with some form of resolution. Sometimes that resolution is triumphant, sometimes tragic, but it always feels earned.
In my early plays, all solo, I struggled. Choices that seemed appealing led to heavy dice costs, draining resources too quickly. Failure came often. But with each loss came understanding. Patterns emerged, strategies developed. By the third play, I was navigating more carefully, selecting actions not just for their immediate benefits but for the risks hidden beneath them. The world began to reveal its logic, and with that revelation came success.
Vantage carries with it a sense of potential. The deck of cards is expansive, promising many combinations and encounters. The rules are simple enough to fade into the background, letting the story breathe. Most importantly, it is not a campaign game. There is no need for weeks-long commitments, no requirement to keep the same group together across sessions. Each play begins fresh, telling its own tale, yet contributing to the larger impression of a vast, interconnected world.
For now, my experience remains solitary. But I can see how it would flourish in a group, where choices and discoveries are shared, where discussions emerge about which risks to take and which to avoid. The absence of strict victory conditions may frustrate some, but for those who enjoy exploration and story, the game opens wide doors.
In a month where play was sparse, Vantage stood as a reminder of why new designs are exciting. They bring fresh perspectives, fresh approaches to what play can mean. Amsterdam engaged the brain, asking for calculations and timing. Vantage engaged the imagination, asking for immersion and risk. Both, in their own ways, enriched July, making it a month remembered less for the heat and more for the horizons opened at the table.
Reflections on Discovery
When I look back on these two games together, what strikes me most is how differently they approached the same fundamental act: making choices. Amsterdam framed choices in terms of timing and resources. Every selection was a tradeoff between now and later, between obligation and opportunity. Vantage framed choices in terms of narrative. Every selection was a step deeper into a world, with consequences that played out through story and survival.
Both games remind me that discovery is not just about finding new titles. It is about finding new ways to think, new ways to feel, new ways to play. Some months bring a flood of plays, others just a handful. But even in a month as uneven as July, a few new discoveries can carry the weight of many.ader texture of the month.
Experiments, Hybrids, and Games in Between
While July was not defined by an overwhelming number of sessions, it was nevertheless a month rich in variety. Alongside the heavier strategy of Amsterdam and the narrative survival of Vantage, there were smaller and quirkier discoveries. These were games that resisted easy categorization, drawing on familiar ideas while blending them in surprising ways. They were not always perfect fits for my group or my tastes, but each revealed something unique about how design continues to stretch and experiment.
3 Chapters: Draft, Play, Score
Few publishers carry as distinct an identity as Amigo. Their catalog is dotted with small-box titles that combine accessible rules with just enough interaction to keep the table buzzing. 3 Chapters fits squarely into this lineage, and in many ways feels like a culmination of what the publisher does best. It takes simple ingredients—drafting, scoring conditions, and light trick-taking—and assembles them into something familiar yet fresh.
The structure of play unfolds across its namesake three chapters. The first is drafting, a mechanic beloved by many for the way it creates tension before a game even truly begins. Players select cards from a rotating hand, building a collection of ranks and abilities. Each card carries not only a number but also tags that tie it to themes or special scoring rules. Choices in this stage are quiet but consequential. Will you prioritize high numbers for guaranteed points later, or aim for cards that rely on clever synergies?
The second chapter introduces a pseudo-trick-taking phase. Here, players select one card to play simultaneously. Scoring is immediate, but unlike traditional trick-taking, the cards are not claimed by others; they remain with their original owners. Points are gained based on conditions that trigger from the interplay of cards revealed. For example, a card might score if another player reveals a particular partner card, or if its rank falls within a certain range compared to the others. This creates a web of incentives, where sometimes helping your opponent can help you too.
Finally, in the third chapter, the scoring turns inward. Players look at their own hands and tally points based on the conditions written on their cards. This stage ties together the previous rounds, rewarding foresight and clever drafting. A card that seemed weak during the play phase may prove powerful in the final reckoning.
What emerges is a game that thrives on interaction, surprise, and timing. Unlike heavier strategy titles, where long-term planning dominates, 3 Chapters lives in the moment. You want to guess what others will play, you want to encourage certain outcomes, and you want to craft a hand that pays off later. But you cannot control everything, and the unpredictability is part of its charm.
I first tried 3 Chapters with my lunch group at work. This group leans casual, enjoying games that can be explained quickly and played within a break. It was an ideal environment for the title. The art style is whimsical, the turns quick, and the results often humorous. People enjoyed watching their cards interact, sometimes helping each other unintentionally, sometimes groaning when a clever setup went unrewarded.
For me, 3 Chapters embodies what Amigo has always excelled at: distilling interaction into a small space. It is not a game to be studied deeply, nor one to anchor an entire game night. But it is perfect for those in-between moments, where you want something light yet engaging. Like a palate cleanser between heavier dishes, it refreshes without demanding too much.
Corps of Discovery: Between Survival and Deduction
If 3 Chapters represents the familiar comfort of a well-tuned small-box design, Corps of Discovery is the opposite: a hybrid experiment, bold in ambition and unusual in execution. At first glance, it presents itself as a survival game, borrowing its theme from an alternate-history take on Lewis and Clark’s expedition. But beneath that surface lies something stranger—a blend of resource management, deduction, and almost Minesweeper-like puzzle-solving.
The core loop is deceptively simple. On each turn, a player removes a token from the map, gaining the resource hidden beneath it. That token is then placed on a challenge card in the player’s tableau. As tokens accumulate, challenges are triggered, forcing the player to resolve them. Success brings rewards, failure brings penalties—often at the expense of precious survival resources like water.
This creates a layered puzzle. You want resources, but every token you pull brings you closer to a trial. Some tokens are helpful, others harmful, and part of the challenge lies in guessing which is which based on limited information. It becomes a game of risk management, of deciding when to push forward and when to play conservatively.
In practice, Corps of Discovery felt unusual, even awkward at times. Its mechanisms are clever, but they sit in tension with one another. On the one hand, it aspires to tell a survival story, full of danger and resource scarcity. On the other, it operates like a logic puzzle, where optimal play depends on deduction and efficiency. The combination is intriguing but not always seamless.
As a solo experience, it offered novelty. The setup was extensive for the length of play, but once underway, the puzzle pulled me in. Each decision felt meaningful, and there was satisfaction in surviving longer than expected or piecing together the logic of a scenario. Yet I could not imagine it flourishing in a group setting. Too much of the game feels internal, with limited interaction to sustain multiple players. The downtime would likely stretch, and the shared narrative would struggle to hold together.
Still, Corps of Discovery earned a place in my memory for being unusual. It was not the kind of game I would rush to the table again, but I was glad to have experienced it. Experiments like this show that design is still willing to take risks, to blend genres in ways that may not always succeed but that broaden the vocabulary of play.
The Landscape Between Great and Not-for-Me
Together, 3 Chapters and Corps of Discovery highlight the wide middle ground that exists between instant favorites and outright disappointments. They are games that are not destined to become staples in my collection, yet they each offered something worthwhile.
3 Chapters delivered lighthearted interaction, perfect for a quick break with friends or colleagues. Corps of Discovery offered a glimpse into a design space I had not encountered before, marrying deduction with survival. Both contributed to a month where the quantity of plays was lower but the variety was high.
It is easy to think of games as successes or failures, keepers or trades. But the truth is more nuanced. Many games live in the middle, played a handful of times, appreciated for what they are, and then set aside. Their value lies not in longevity but in the moments they provide: the laughter of a lunch break, the satisfaction of solving a tricky puzzle, the memory of something unusual tried once.
For me, July was filled with these kinds of middle-ground experiences. They may not anchor future game nights, but they enriched the tapestry of the month. In some ways, they were the perfect complement to the heavier titles. After wrestling with the resource delays of Amsterdam or the narrative tension of Vantage, it was refreshing to play something lighter or stranger, something that asked for less commitment but still delivered a spark of engagement.
Lessons from the “Not-for-Me” Pile
Every month of gaming tells a story, not just through the highs of new discoveries or the reliable warmth of old favorites, but also through the games that miss the mark. These “not-for-me” experiences often say as much about where I am as a player as they do about the games themselves. July carried a few of these: Furnace, Pacific, and Tiny Towns. None were disasters, none unworthy of the table. They simply failed to connect. And in unpacking why, I find a clearer picture of my own rhythms as a player.
Furnace: The Cold Efficiency of Engines
Furnace is often praised for its elegance. At its core, it offers a sharp, streamlined engine-building puzzle, built around two clever mechanisms: the auction and the conversion of resources into victory points. Players bid for factories, using discs with numerical values from one to four. The twist is that losing a bid still provides compensation — resources tied to the card. This means losing can often feel just as rewarding as winning, encouraging players to bid carefully and anticipate where others might go.
On paper, it’s brilliant. In practice, I found the experience oddly sterile. The decisions were clear, but they lacked tension. Auctions are usually lively affairs, full of bluffing and brinkmanship, but here the outcomes often felt predetermined by the mathematics of what was available. My choices rarely felt personal; they were dictated by efficiency, by what the numbers demanded.
The conversion engine that followed was similarly efficient but uninspiring. Convert coal to steel, steel to upgrades, upgrades to points. Each round felt like adjusting sliders on a dashboard rather than weaving a narrative or building something tangible. It was clean, even elegant — but clean in the way of a hospital room: functional, cold, and a little too sterile.
Others at the table enjoyed Furnace more than I did. They admired the puzzle, the neatness of its design. And I can see why it resonates with many. But for me, it lacked the spark that turns calculation into excitement. I left the game appreciating its cleverness but with no desire to revisit it.
Pacific: Maps Without Meaning
Pacific was more of an oddity. At first glance, it presented itself as a geographical exploration game, a map of islands and oceanic routes waiting to be uncovered. There was something enticing about the promise — a game of movement across a vast seascape, perhaps blending trade, navigation, and discovery.
Yet the reality felt undercooked. The map was expansive but empty, its spaces more abstract than evocative. Movement across it carried little weight, and the goals never cohered into something that felt like a journey. Instead of exploration, I found myself going through mechanical motions, chasing points without a sense of story.
This is not to say it was bad. The rules worked, the systems functioned. But everything felt thin, as though the design had been sketched out but never filled in. The theme, which could have been lush and atmospheric, remained a backdrop rather than a living presence. The mechanisms, though serviceable, lacked the tension or interplay that might have made them engaging.
Perhaps with different expectations, I might have enjoyed it more. But as it was, Pacific left me with little to hold onto. The vastness of its board was ironic, given how hollow it felt in play.
Tiny Towns: Precision and Paralysis
Tiny Towns is the one I most wanted to enjoy. Its premise is delightful: each player builds a small grid-based town, filling it with buildings whose shapes must be arranged in precise patterns. The hook is the shared resource system. On each turn, one player names a resource, and everyone must place it somewhere on their grid. This creates a constant tension between personal plans and the collective rhythm.
I admire the design immensely. It is compact, clever, and elegant. And yet, when I sit down to play, I find myself paralyzed. Each placement feels fraught with consequence, and a single misstep can derail an entire plan. For some, this is the fun — the pressure of precision, the joy of pulling off a perfect arrangement. For me, it becomes stressful. Instead of delight, I feel boxed in, watching as mistakes accumulate and possibilities shrink.
My group’s experience mirrored mine. Some enjoyed the puzzle, relishing the challenge of optimization. Others shared my frustration, finding the margin for error too punishing. It is not that Tiny Towns is unfair — it gives you the tools, it asks you to think ahead, and it rewards careful play. But the precision it demands leaves little room for improvisation or recovery, at least in my eyes.
I respect the design. I can see why it has found such an audience. But I’ve learned that it simply doesn’t suit the way I like to play. I prefer games that allow space for flexibility, where mistakes can be turned into opportunities, where the story evolves even when the plan collapses. Tiny Towns is too rigid for me, too unforgiving.
The Value of Disappointment
It is easy to think of these games as failures, but that would be unfair. Each is well-crafted in its own way, each has found an audience. What they represent for me is not failure but misalignment. They are reminders that taste in games is personal, shaped by mood, preference, and the rhythms of play.
Furnace showed me that efficiency alone does not excite me; I need a sense of narrative or risk. Pacific reminded me that theme without depth falls flat; I need mechanisms that bring the setting to life. Tiny Towns revealed my discomfort with rigidity; I crave flexibility and adaptability.
These lessons are valuable. They help refine what I look for in games, guiding future choices. They also remind me that not every session needs to be a triumph. Part of the hobby is trying, testing, and sometimes setting aside. Without these contrasts, the highlights would not shine as brightly.
The Rhythm of the Month
Taken together, July’s “not-for-me” games painted a picture of contrast. On one side were the highs: the tense resource delays of Amsterdam, the narrative survival of Vantage, the playful drafting of 3 Chapters. On the other were the lows: the cold efficiency of Furnace, the hollowness of Pacific, the rigid precision of Tiny Towns. Between them stretched a month of varied textures.
It was not a month of abundance — fewer sessions than usual, fewer plays of old favorites. But it was a month of discovery, of seeing where my tastes align and where they do not. And that, in its own way, was valuable. Sometimes the rhythm of gaming is about volume, about playing as much as possible. Other times it is about reflection, about learning what resonates and what does not. July was the latter.
Final Thoughts:
Looking back across the month, July feels less like a flood of play and more like a mosaic — a handful of sessions, each distinct, each contributing a different piece to the whole. It was a month of contrasts.
There was Amsterdam, a reworking of an older design that demanded patience, foresight, and a willingness to endure its long runtime in exchange for deep, satisfying tension. There was Vantage, a narrative survival experience that turned every choice into a story beat, each playthrough a miniature arc of risk, failure, and hard-earned success. These were the high points, the games that lingered long after the table was cleared.
In the middle stood 3 Chapters and Corps of Discovery — experiments and oddities. One was light and social, built for laughter and quick plays with colleagues. The other was solitary and unusual, a hybrid puzzle that offered novelty even if it never quite clicked as a group experience. They may not anchor future nights, but they broadened the texture of the month.
And then there were the “not-for-me” titles: Furnace, too efficient to feel alive; Pacific, vast but hollow; Tiny Towns, clever but too rigid for my taste. None of them were bad games. They simply highlighted what I do and do not value: narrative tension over cold efficiency, meaningful exploration over empty geography, flexibility over rigidity.
Taken together, these games made July a month not of abundance but of reflection. They reminded me that gaming isn’t just about chasing hits or filling the calendar with plays. It’s about discovery, about trying, testing, and sometimes realizing that a design doesn’t suit you. The misses make the hits shine brighter. The lighter diversions make the heavy puzzles more rewarding. The solo struggles make the group laughter more meaningful.
If anything, July reaffirmed the richness of the hobby. Even in a slower month, the table became a place for new horizons, for experiments, for lessons about taste and preference. Not every game will be a keeper. But every game has something to teach.
And so, as July gives way to August, I carry those lessons forward: an eagerness to keep discovering, a willingness to embrace both the highs and the lows, and a recognition that the rhythm of gaming is not measured only in numbers of plays but in the variety and depth of experiences.