Every convention begins somewhere, though the point of origin is rarely as straightforward as the official opening of the doors or the shuffling of people through a registration desk. For some, it begins on the train journey into town, leafing through rulebooks or excitedly discussing which games to try first. For others, it starts in hotel lobbies, meeting friends not seen for months or years. For me, on this particular weekend in Harrogate, the convention began with a plate of breakfast.
The setting was the Winter Gardens — not a lush botanical collection, as the name might suggest, but a cavernous Victorian building filled with wrought steel beams and vast panes of glass. Repurposed into a public dining hall, it has retained the grandeur of its architecture. Light filters in through the windows, scattering across tiled floors and long tables. Conversations, clinking cutlery, and the soft scraping of chairs against the stone create a hum that is never quite loud, but never silent either. It feels like a space with memory, as though its walls still carry the traces of the century before, when it was first constructed as a hall of glass and iron.
I have always enjoyed the atmosphere of that place. It is unusually serene for a chain establishment, particularly early in the morning. One can settle into a chair with a coffee, spread out a newspaper or a phone, and feel a momentary pause before the pace of the day accelerates. A full English breakfast arrives with its comforting weight: eggs, sausage, beans, black pudding, toast. The meal has a rhythm — the way yolk soaks into bread, the satisfying salt of bacon, the final sweep of beans across the plate. It is a ritual as much as a meal, a way of gathering strength for what lies ahead.
Usually, that ritual is accompanied only by the soft murmur of other early risers. But on this particular morning, the mood was different. A large group had gathered near my seat, their voices cutting through the natural hush. There was laughter, enthusiastic exclamations, and the confident cadence of people unbothered by the notion of keeping quiet. The accents were American, loud enough to travel across the high ceiling and echo back.
At first I felt a slight irritation. The Winter Gardens is where I come to ease into the day, not to feel as though I’ve been dropped into a bustling meet-up. Yet irritation soon gave way to curiosity. Who were they? The energy at their tables suggested not merely friends catching up but something more organised. Perhaps a YouTuber or podcaster had gathered fans for a breakfast meet-and-greet. There was a vibrancy to the group, a sense of shared purpose.
And then the thought struck me: how curious that such a grassroots gaming convention, set in a northern English town, would import its figureheads from across the Atlantic. Britain has its own content creators, its own community voices. Why, then, did the spotlight so often fall on guests flown in from abroad? Perhaps this is simply the globalised nature of hobbies today, where the internet erases borders and popularity depends less on geography than on reach. Or perhaps it was my own ingrained sensibilities, the faint tug of “little Britain” that sometimes seeps into consciousness in spaces like Wetherspoons, with their uniquely local character.
I pondered these questions as I sipped coffee and worked my way through the last sausage on my plate. There was something faintly amusing about the juxtaposition: me, silently reflecting on cultural dynamics over beans and black pudding, while a group of Americans a few tables over enthusiastically discussed games, content, and convention plans. The hobby contains multitudes, and here they were, embodied in a single room on a Saturday morning.
My reflections were interrupted by the buzz of my phone. A message from friends, already at the convention centre, reported that they had found space in the games library and had managed to grab a copy of Paladins of the West Kingdom. “Shall we save you a seat?” they asked. It was an easy decision. With only a few forkfuls left, I quickly replied that I would join them shortly. As far as interruptions go, an invitation to play a well-regarded strategy game is a welcome one.
Between Breakfast and Board Games
The walk from the Winter Gardens to the convention centre is short, just long enough for the cold morning air to sweep away the last remnants of sleepiness. As I approached, the hum of conversation and the ebb and flow of people marked the building as a place of gathering. Yet before I could join my friends upstairs, I found myself drawn into the gravitational pull of the demo area.
Convention demo zones are like miniature marketplaces of curiosity. Tables are set with brightly coloured boards, stacks of cards, and clusters of tokens. Representatives hover, eager to explain rules to passersby. Players linger, some already invested, others peering with cautious interest. It is here that many people encounter games they might never otherwise notice, caught by artwork, theme, or the enthusiasm of a demonstrator.
On this morning, the game that caught our attention was Snapshot: Wildlife Photographer. Its premise was immediately appealing: players take on the role of photographers trying to capture the perfect shot of elusive animals. At the start of each turn, a push-your-luck mechanic determined whether the animals spooked or stayed within view. Once the scene was set, dice were allocated to specific cards, rolled against target values, and, if successful, added to personal collections. Thematically, it was neat — the idea of approaching animals carefully, hoping to capture them without scaring them away.
The game also included set collection and hidden objectives, encouraging players to pursue particular species or combinations. To counterbalance the luck of dice rolls and card flips, there were tokens that allowed rerolls or adjustments. It was, on paper, a family-friendly balance of chance and light strategy.
In practice, I found the reliance on luck a little heavy. The mitigation systems existed, but they did not always integrate smoothly. I felt the design, for all its charm, was still a step away from elegance. Yet that was my perspective. My companions saw more to enjoy, particularly with children in mind, and decided it was worth taking home. That divergence of opinion — one player shrugging, another excited — is exactly what makes conventions fascinating. Games resonate differently with different people, and the demo hall exists precisely to allow those discoveries.
A Murder in Miniature
Not far from the animal photography game, a different kind of demo drew us in. The Detective Society had set up a booth offering a compact mystery to solve: a self-contained fifteen-minute case. On the table were details of a murder victim, three suspect profiles, and a smattering of evidence. The challenge was simple — examine the materials, follow the leads, and determine the culprit.
What set this apart from a typical deduction puzzle was its integration of real-world elements. The case invited us to use our smartphones, not as distractions but as investigative tools. We visited websites created for fictional companies, sent emails to characters, and received replies that moved the investigation forward. The blend of physical props and digital immersion created an unusual depth. It felt less like a puzzle and more like a miniature role-play, a brief step into the shoes of investigators piecing together a crime.
We solved the case in just under eleven minutes, though the satisfaction came less from the speed and more from the cohesiveness of the experience. The narrative held together, the clues made sense, and the use of multimedia elements never felt forced. It was a glimpse into the future of hybrid gaming, where the boundaries between the tabletop and the digital blur into a seamless whole.
Toward the Main Event
By the time we finally climbed the stairs to meet my friends, the morning already felt full. A breakfast in a grand Victorian hall, an unexpected wildlife photography challenge, a pocket-sized murder mystery — each had provided its own story, its own texture.
And yet the real centrepiece of the morning still lay ahead: Paladins of the West Kingdom. The game carried a reputation, the kind that precedes it across conventions and online discussions. It promised a deeper, more strategic experience than the demos downstairs, a chance to sink into a system of choices and long-term planning.
As I settled into my chair, greeted my friends, and looked at the array of components spread across the table, I felt that familiar anticipation that only certain games bring. The morning had already been rich with moments, but now came the opportunity for something more substantial — the kind of game that defines a conventional experience and lingers in memory long after the pieces are packed away.
The day, in many ways, was only just beginning.
Paladins at the Table
When you first sit down to play a game like Paladins of the West Kingdom, it doesn’t reveal itself immediately. The surface impression is one of tokens, cards, and icons, a spread of coloured wooden pieces that seem overwhelming at a glance. Yet as the rules unfold and the first turns are taken, a structure emerges. What seemed chaotic at first begins to align into patterns: resources flow, actions interconnect, and the game slowly reveals the shape of its design.
It’s worth pausing to acknowledge how strange and remarkable that process is. A box of cardboard and wood transforms into an engine of choices, a miniature world governed by its own rules. Every player, regardless of background, is invited to step into that world. That is the promise of the tabletop medium, and Paladins delivers it with precision.
First Impressions of Structure
At the heart of the game is a simple rhythm: draw cards, gain workers of various colours, and place them onto your personal board to perform actions. Yet the simplicity is deceptive. The workers are colour-coded, and each action requires specific combinations. A green worker might be needed to recruit, a red one to fight, a blue one to build. At times, multiple workers must be combined to achieve a task, creating a subtle puzzle of allocation.
Every round also begins with the choice of a paladin card, representing one of the titular defenders of the kingdom. Each paladin provides temporary bonuses — perhaps extra strength for combat, additional faith for religious actions, or a discount on certain costs. Choosing which paladin to call upon shapes not only that round’s strategy but also the arc of your game as a whole. The decision is never trivial, and the consequences ripple forward several turns.
This blend of immediate tactics and long-term planning defines the experience. Do you prioritise fortifications early, building the defences of your town to secure steady points? Do you focus on faith and influence, recruiting allies and spreading influence across the board? Or do you lean into raw military strength, vanquishing enemies to claim spoils and reputation? Each path feels viable, and the interplay between them ensures that no two games unfold in exactly the same way.
The Flow of Play
In our first session, there was a mixture of exploration and competition. My companions had already skimmed the rulebook before I arrived, giving them a slight head start in understanding. I was learning on the fly, which lent a certain looseness to my decisions. Rather than calculating optimal moves, I gravitated toward actions that seemed intuitively satisfying.
I began by recruiting allies, partly because I liked the sense of building a network of support. The game rewards this approach with incremental benefits: discounts, extra workers, or small bonuses that compound over time. Meanwhile, one of my friends focused heavily on fortifications, lining the top of their board with a growing wall of defensive markers. The third player leaned into combat, spending resources to vanquish enemies and gather rewards.
What struck me most was how each approach felt distinct, yet interwoven. When one player fortified, it indirectly pressured the rest of us to consider keeping pace. When enemies were vanquished, it changed the pool of available cards, altering the opportunities for everyone else. The game was competitive without being cutthroat — less about direct confrontation and more about parallel races, each player carving out their own version of progress.
The Weight of Choice
What lingers after playing Paladins is not so much the mechanics themselves but the weight of decision-making. Every worker placement carries consequences. Placing a red worker on the combat action now means not having that worker available later for a different purpose. Choosing to recruit an ally might grant an immediate benefit but uses up resources that could have been saved for a more powerful action.
This constant push-and-pull creates a kind of tension that is both exhausting and exhilarating. The game doesn’t allow autopilot. Each turn asks you to weigh costs and opportunities, to imagine several steps ahead, to commit with the knowledge that you cannot do everything.
It’s a tension that mirrors real life in some ways. Time and energy are limited; choices must be made about what to prioritise. Build defences, or expand outward? Secure faith, or pursue influence? The metaphors may be medieval, but the dilemmas feel timeless.
Echoes of Other Games
As much as Paladins impressed me, I could not help but feel echoes of another design: Orléans. Years earlier, I had played Orléans extensively, and certain mechanics in Paladins immediately triggered memories. Both games involve colour-coded workers that must be arranged into patterns on a personal board to activate actions. Both allow players to permanently enhance certain slots, making them easier to fill later. Both use a wildcard worker with unique properties, complicating the puzzle.
The difference lies in execution. Orléans is driven by bag-building, a constant shuffle of probabilities as workers are drawn at random. Paladins removes that element, instead giving players structured choices through paladin cards and central drafts. The result is less about probability management and more about planning around known quantities.
Recognising these echoes didn’t diminish Paladins. If anything, it deepened my appreciation, showing how designers borrow, adapt, and iterate upon existing systems. Creativity often comes not from inventing something wholly new but from recombining familiar parts into a new configuration. Paladins felt like a cousin to Orléans — different enough to stand alone, but familiar enough to feel approachable.
The Social Layer
While much of the game is cerebral, the social context of playing at a convention added a unique dimension. There is something satisfying about sitting across from friends in a public space, absorbed in a shared challenge while the wider bustle of the event continues around you. Conversations drift in from nearby tables, laughter erupts from groups playing lighter games, announcements echo faintly over the loudspeakers. Yet within your circle, the world narrows to the board, the tokens, the decisions.
At times, we debated rules, flipping through the reference sheet to clarify an interaction. At other times, we bantered lightly, teasing one another about choices or groaning at unlucky outcomes. There were moments of silence too, as each player leaned forward, eyes fixed on the board, calculating their next move. That ebb and flow — talk, silence, laughter, tension — is as much a part of the experience as the mechanics themselves.
It struck me that this is why conventions matter. It is not merely about discovering new games or acquiring titles for a collection. It is about the act of playing together, of being physically present in a shared activity. In an age when so much interaction is mediated through screens, the tactile immediacy of a wooden meeple, the collective pause as dice tumble, the small ritual of passing cards around the table — these things take on heightened value.
Reflection After Play
Our game of Paladins lasted a couple of hours, long enough for the rhythm of rounds to build into a satisfying arc. By the final turns, strategies had crystallised. My recruitment-heavy approach had given me steady benefits but left me lagging in raw point generation. The fortified player had built an impressive wall but found themselves resource-starved in the final stretch. The military player surged ahead, their vanquishing efforts paying off in cumulative bonuses.
When scores were tallied, the differences were modest. No one ran away with the game; all of us finished within a small cluster. That balance is a hallmark of thoughtful design — a sense that multiple paths to victory remain competitive, that no single approach dominates.
Afterward, as we packed away the pieces, I found myself replaying decisions in my mind. Could I have shifted gears earlier, diverting resources from recruitment into fortifications? Should I have chosen a different paladin card in round four? What would have happened if I had risked more aggressive military actions? That mental replay is, to me, the sign of a good game. It lingers. It invites you to imagine what might have been.
Beyond Mechanics
Yet what lingers even more strongly is the atmosphere of the session. Sitting at that table, immersed in choices and conversation, felt like stepping outside of ordinary time. The convention around us faded into background noise, the outside world even further away. For those hours, life was reduced to a small board, a handful of cards, and the interplay of imagination and decision.
That is the strange alchemy of gaming. A group of adults sit down with colourful pieces of wood and paper, and somehow it becomes meaningful. It is not just distraction or entertainment, though it is those things too. It is also a connection, challenge, and narrative. Each playthrough becomes a story in miniature — of bold moves, unlucky rolls, clever plays, and near misses.
In reflecting on that morning, I realise that Paladins was not merely a game we played. It was a shared experience, stitched into the fabric of the convention weekend. The breakfast at the Winter Gardens, the demos in the hall, the eventual dive into a complex strategy game — each moment built upon the last, layering into a tapestry of memory.
The convention still had days to go, with more games, more encounters, more stories waiting. But Paladins marked a turning point. It was the first major game of the weekend, the one that anchored everything else. And like the paladins themselves, it lent a sense of structure and purpose to the hours that followed.
The day moved on, as days always do, but the impression remained: a morning of choices, connections, and the curious satisfaction of building a medieval city out of cardboard and wood.
Demos, Discoveries, and Detective Work
Conventions are curious things. They are at once focused and chaotic, purposeful and meandering. On paper, the schedule might look orderly: doors open at a set time, events occur in designated rooms, game libraries open and close according to plan. Yet when you’re actually inside, moving from booth to booth or weaving between tables, the experience feels far less linear. It becomes a sequence of detours, of unexpected encounters and small discoveries that accumulate into something much larger than the sum of their parts.
After the morning of Paladins, I found myself reflecting on how much of a convention’s character lies not in the headline events but in those smaller diversions — the demos that catch your eye, the games you try almost by accident, the conversations you stumble into. They are the connective tissue, the in-between spaces that transform a simple gathering into a lived experience.
The Snapshot Experience
The first of these diversions was Snapshot: Wildlife Photographer. Even the name carries a certain charm. Where many modern board games wrap themselves in the trappings of empire-building, fantasy conflict, or grand historical themes, Snapshot takes a more whimsical angle: you are a photographer, stalking elusive animals, hoping to capture the perfect shot without spooking your quarry.
Mechanically, the game relies on push-your-luck elements combined with dice allocation. Each turn begins with a card flip — an unpredictable reveal that represents whether your attempt to get close to an animal succeeds or fails. The tension lies in never knowing if your preparations will be undone by chance. After this, dice are rolled and assigned to specific animal cards, each with its own difficulty threshold. Tokens serve as mitigation, softening the sharp edges of luck by allowing rerolls or adjustments.
At our table, the experience was mixed. My luck ran cold, producing a string of poor flips and frustrating rolls. What might have been a delightful cascade of successful photographs became a grind of missed opportunities. My companions, however, saw the game differently. They found enjoyment in its accessible rules, its cheerful theme, and the lighthearted frustration of bad luck. The game offered just enough strategy to keep choices meaningful, but never so much that the mood turned serious.
It struck me then that Snapshot occupies a particular niche in the gaming ecosystem. It is not designed for players chasing depth or long-term strategic arcs. Instead, it aims for accessibility and immediacy. Its role is to gather families, casual players, or younger audiences around a table for a short burst of fun. The fact that my companions decided to purchase a copy for their children was telling; they clearly saw the audience for whom the game was made. My own lukewarm reaction was not a flaw of the design but a reflection of mismatched expectations.
Between Tables and Booths
Leaving Snapshot behind, we drifted through the demo hall in that unhurried way that conventions encourage. The floor was busy but not frantic, with clusters of people forming at booths, laughter rising from tables, and staff explaining rules with varying degrees of clarity and enthusiasm.
We paused at Bright Eye Games, where Termite Towers was set up. Time allowed only a couple of quick rounds, barely enough to grasp the structure of play. What remained was less the specifics of the game than the impression of possibility — that countless titles, each with their own mechanics and ambitions, were waiting just a few steps away. Some would resonate, some would not, but the variety itself was the point.
This meandering through booths reveals another truth about conventions: they are spaces of sampling. Few games can be fully understood in a fifteen-minute demo, yet even brief encounters leave traces. A clever mechanic glimpsed in action, an unusual theme presented with enthusiasm, a tactile component that feels satisfying in the hand — each leaves a mark on memory, even if the game itself is never revisited. In that sense, demos are less about mastering rules and more about broadening horizons.
The Detective Society Encounter
Of all the diversions that day, The Detective Society demo was the most intriguing. The premise was simple: an escape-room-in-a-box distilled into a fifteen-minute mini-case. Players were handed a victim profile, three suspect dossiers, and a scattering of physical evidence. The challenge was to solve the case by piecing together clues, following leads, and applying deduction.
What elevated the experience were the immersive touches. Certain clues directed us to visit websites designed specifically for the game, presenting themselves as in-world organisations. Email addresses were provided, and sending messages to them elicited automated but thematically convincing replies. This layering of physical and digital elements blurred the boundary between the fictional case and the real world. For a moment, you felt less like a player at a convention table and more like an amateur detective unraveling a genuine mystery.
Our group threw ourselves into the task with enthusiasm. Papers were spread across the table, suspects debated, theories tested against the evidence. Phones were pulled out, not for distraction but as tools integral to the case. There was an energy in the air, a shared intensity that contrasted sharply with the lighter mood of Snapshot earlier in the day.
We solved the case in just under eleven minutes, a respectable time according to the staff overseeing the demo. The satisfaction of reaching the solution was amplified by the collaborative process. Unlike competitive games, where victory is individual, cooperative puzzles generate a collective triumph. The case may have been fictional, but the sense of achievement was real.
The Role of Immersion
Reflecting on the Detective Society demo, I was struck by how powerful immersion can be. Board games often rely on abstraction — wooden cubes representing resources, tokens standing in for armies, dice rolls simulating conflict. Yet when a game reaches beyond abstraction and taps into a player’s imagination directly, the experience deepens.
In this case, the use of websites and emails anchored the fiction in reality. The murder victim and suspects may have been invented, but the tools we used to investigate them were the same ones we use in daily life. That overlap created a suspension of disbelief stronger than what a deck of cards alone might achieve.
It highlighted, too, the diversity of what “gaming” can mean. On one end of the spectrum sits Paladins of the West Kingdom, a dense strategy game of resource management and optimisation. On the other sits The Detective Society, a narrative-driven puzzle experience. Both exist under the same umbrella, yet their approaches and appeals could not be more different. Conventions make this diversity visible, placing them side by side for players to discover.
The Importance of Contrast
What the day revealed most clearly was the value of contrast. Moving from Snapshot to Detective Society to Paladins created a rhythm of light and heavy, quick and slow, simple and complex. Each experience was enriched by the one that preceded it. The levity of Snapshot made the intensity of Detective Society feel sharper. The structured grind of Paladins felt more rewarding after the unstructured wandering of the demo floor.
This contrast is built into the convention experience itself. You might begin a day in the quiet of a breakfast hall, drift through noisy demo zones, settle into an epic strategy game, then cap the evening with something light and silly. The shifts in tone keep the experience fresh, preventing fatigue and ensuring that no single game dominates memory.
Personal Resonance
For me, the strongest memory of that afternoon was not a specific rule or mechanic but the sense of discovery. Conventions remind us that the hobby is far larger than any single collection, group, or circle of friends. There are always more games out there — stranger themes, bolder mechanics, more immersive designs. You cannot possibly experience them all, but encountering them, even briefly, expands your sense of what is possible.
That expansion carries home with you. Even if you never play Snapshot again, you remember that games can be about photography and wildlife rather than empires and wars. Even if The Detective Society remains only a demo, you carry with you the idea that cardboard can spill over into digital immersion. Each encounter adds a thread to the tapestry of what gaming can be.
As the afternoon wound down and we made our way toward evening, I realised how much of the day had been unplanned. None of these demos had been on a fixed schedule. They had emerged organically, the product of wandering and curiosity. That, perhaps, is the essence of conventions: structure on paper, serendipity in practice.
The morning had begun with the familiar comfort of a Wetherspoons breakfast, progressed through the deliberate complexity of Paladins, and then meandered into lighter demos and immersive puzzles. The day was not yet over, but already it felt rich, layered, and satisfying.
In the end, what lingers is not the precise score of Paladins or the exact time we solved the Detective Society case. What lingers is the memory of moving between worlds — medieval towns, wildlife safaris, murder investigations — all within the span of a single afternoon. That fluidity, that capacity for games to transport, remains the greatest strength of the hobby.
Conventions, Culture, and Community
By the time the day reached its later hours, it became clear that AireCon — like many gaming conventions — is not really about the games alone. Certainly, the tables filled with meeples and cards are the most visible markers. Certainly, the demo halls, the library, and the vendor stands form the structural backbone. But the deeper essence lies elsewhere, in the weaving together of community, conversation, and culture.
The games provide the excuse for gathering, the catalyst that brings people to the same space. What unfolds around them, however, is something broader: a celebration of togetherness, of curiosity, of shared imagination.
A Different Kind of Gathering
Unlike other types of conventions — whether they be comic expos, music festivals, or sports events — board game gatherings often carry a more subdued energy. The crowds are present, the buzz of activity undeniable, yet the dominant tone is not one of spectacle but of concentration. Tables are filled not with audiences watching performers but with small groups absorbed in play.
This creates an atmosphere that is at once bustling and intimate. You can stand in the middle of a hall filled with hundreds of people and still feel as though each cluster exists in its own bubble, sealed off by the invisible boundaries of rules and story. The noise around you becomes background hum, broken occasionally by bursts of laughter or groans of disappointment when dice refuse to cooperate.
That balance between collective energy and personal immersion is unusual. It allows participants to feel part of something larger while still focusing on the immediate circle of friends or strangers at their table. Few other gatherings manage to strike that same chord.
The Cosmopolitan Nature of Play
Earlier in the day, I had mused over the presence of American voices at a breakfast table in Harrogate, pondering why a grassroots event in a northern English town might lean on overseas guests. That thought returned to me as I wandered through the convention floor, listening to the variety of accents around me. English and American, certainly, but also European languages, regional dialects, and the unplaceable cadences of people who had traveled from further afield.
What becomes clear in such settings is that gaming has become a shared language that transcends geography. The mechanics of Paladins or The Detective Society do not rely on cultural context in the way that, say, jokes or idioms might. A player from Berlin, Boston, or Birmingham can sit down, learn the rules, and engage on equal footing.
This cosmopolitan quality gives conventions a richness that belies their modest settings. A leisure centre in Yorkshire can, for a weekend, become a crossroads of global hobby culture. And for many attendees, that exposure is part of the appeal — a chance to step outside local circles and engage with a wider community.
Layers of Experience
Conventions also operate on multiple layers. For some, they are primarily about discovery: trying the newest releases, sampling games not yet available in shops, or previewing prototypes. For others, they are about socialising — reconnecting with friends from past events, or simply spending uninterrupted hours around a table. Still others attend with an eye toward collecting, scouring vendors for hard-to-find titles.
The beauty of AireCon, and conventions like it, is that all these layers coexist. You can see the hardcore strategist bent over a complex eurogame, the family laughing through a party game, the collector clutching a limited-edition box, and the curious passer-by learning the ropes of their very first modern board game. No single layer defines the event; together, they create a mosaic.
The Role of Space
Space matters more than one might think. The Winter Gardens breakfast hall, with its Victorian architecture and airy ambience, shaped the mood of that morning in a way a generic café never could. Similarly, the convention centre itself provided not just tables and chairs but an environment conducive to focus and play. Wide aisles allowed movement without claustrophobia, while the mix of open halls and tucked-away rooms gave attendees options between bustle and quiet.
Even the small design choices mattered: signs clearly marking areas, volunteers available to guide newcomers, the placement of demo booths to encourage wandering. These seemingly mundane details form the scaffolding that supports the experience. When done well, they recede into the background, allowing participants to immerse themselves without friction.
The Generosity of Enthusiasm
Perhaps the most striking feature of the convention was the generosity of enthusiasm. Everywhere you turned, someone was eager to explain rules, share a favourite game, or recommend a hidden gem. Conversations sparked easily — “What are you playing?” “How does it work?” “Would you like to join?”
This generosity stems, I think, from the nature of the hobby itself. Board games are inherently social, designed to be shared. Enjoyment depends not only on the mechanics but also on the willingness of others to sit down and participate. As a result, gaming culture often cultivates a spirit of openness, a recognition that each new player enriches the experience.
That spirit was visible in small gestures: a stranger patiently walking someone through a tricky rule, a designer proudly explaining their prototype to curious passers-by, groups waving in others who looked hesitant on the sidelines. It created an atmosphere of welcome, even amid the busyness of the weekend.
The Contrast of Pace
Another feature of conventions is the oscillation between fast and slow. At times, the pace feels frantic: rushing to secure a spot in the library, skimming through rules under time pressure, darting between booths before the hall closes. At other times, it slows to a crawl: waiting for a turn in a long game, losing track of time in conversation, or simply sitting back to absorb the surroundings.
This rhythm mirrors the variety of games themselves. Snapshot unfolded in bursts of quick decisions and laughter; Paladins stretched into hours of careful planning. The Detective Society’s mini-case struck a middle ground, balancing urgency with thoughtful deduction. The convention as a whole, then, becomes a meta-game of pace management — knowing when to lean into activity and when to pause.
Reflection on Value
One of the more curious aspects of the day was the awareness of value. Tickets, travel, accommodation, food — all these add up, and yet the experience feels worth it, even if you only play a handful of games. The reason is that the value lies not in volume but in texture. Playing Paladins once at a convention, surrounded by the energy of the event, is qualitatively different from playing it in a quiet living room.
Similarly, solving a Detective Society case in a crowded hall feels distinct from tackling a puzzle at home. The presence of others, the context of the event, and the layering of experiences all amplify the memory. In that sense, conventions create value not through efficiency but through intensity — compressing a wide spectrum of encounters into a concentrated span of days.
Toward Evening
As the convention day tipped into evening, the mood shifted. The initial rush of excitement gave way to a more relaxed atmosphere. Groups lingered longer at tables, less hurried, as though settling into the rhythm of extended play. Conversations deepened, laughter came more easily, and the focus shifted from sampling to savouring.
I found myself thinking back to the morning, to the clatter of cutlery in the Winter Gardens and the surprise of encountering American voices in that quiet space. The day had expanded outward from that moment, spiraling into games, demos, puzzles, and reflections. Now, as the convention floor settled into evening calm, it felt as though the circle was closing.
A Broader Lens
Beyond the specifics of any one game or demo, the convention illuminated something broader about the role of play in adult life. It is easy to dismiss games as frivolous, the domain of children or idle leisure. Yet what I witnessed throughout the day was something richer: adults engaging deeply, thoughtfully, joyfully in shared activities that challenged their minds and connected them with others.
Games provided a structure, a framework within which to experiment, strategise, and collaborate. But the deeper outcome was social and psychological — relaxation, connection, and the satisfaction of creativity. In that sense, conventions are not just about games but about carving out space in modern life for play, imagination, and community.
Carrying It Forward
When the weekend ends and the halls empty, what remains is not the specifics of rules or scores but the impressions carried forward. The sense of having been part of something larger. The conversations that might spark new friendships. The glimpse of games and ideas that broadened horizons.
In the weeks that follow, you may find yourself revisiting the memory of rolling dice in Snapshot, of debating suspects in Detective Society, of puzzling over worker placements in Paladins. Each memory is a fragment, and together they form a narrative of play that endures beyond the event itself.
Final Thoughts
Looking back across the entire experience, what stands out most is not any single game or particular session but the broader atmosphere that tied everything together. Conventions like AireCon have a way of transforming ordinary days into layered encounters. They combine the familiar with the unexpected: a quiet breakfast in the Winter Gardens interrupted by lively chatter, a chance encounter with a new release that sparks curiosity, or a long, absorbing play of a title that’s been sitting just outside your orbit for years.
The rhythm of the weekend mirrors the rhythm of play itself. At moments it is fast and loud, filled with laughter and urgency; at others it is slow and quiet, marked by careful decision-making or idle conversation. That ebb and flow creates an environment that is not only engaging but restorative. In a sense, the convention becomes a kind of microcosm for the hobby itself: a patchwork of strategy, chance, creativity, and companionship.
What becomes clear when reflecting on the event is that board gaming is never just about the cardboard and tokens on the table. The rules and components are tools, but the real substance lies in the people who gather around them. Whether they are old friends sharing another chapter of ongoing tradition or strangers meeting for the first time, the games create a space for dialogue and collaboration. They give permission to slow down, to focus, to laugh, and to imagine.
One of the subtler themes running through the days in Harrogate was the way culture and geography fade into the background once the games begin. Conversations before a round might reveal accents or cultural references that signal distance, but as soon as the first worker is placed or the first card is flipped, everyone is simply a player. It is a reminder that play functions as a universal language, dissolving boundaries and connecting people who might otherwise never cross paths.
Another impression that lingers is how varied the layers of engagement can be. For some, the highlight was trying out the newest prototypes. For others, it was rediscovering classics or diving into heavier titles like Paladins. Some attendees seemed content to drift between tables, enjoying quick demos or puzzles, while others settled in for the long haul with friends. That variety ensures that no two experiences of a convention are the same, even if the attendees share the same space.
In the end, what remains after the dice are packed away and the halls fall silent are the moments. The small but vivid flashes: a laugh shared during a tense roll, the satisfaction of piecing together a mystery, the simple pleasure of sipping coffee before a long day of play. These fragments become memories, stitched together into something more lasting than the games themselves.
Perhaps that is the real purpose of such gatherings. They remind us that play is not just leisure, but a vital form of connection. In a time when so much of life is mediated through screens or hurried obligations, to sit at a table and engage face to face is both rare and valuable. It doesn’t require spectacle or extravagance. It requires only a willingness to gather, to share, and to imagine together.
Leaving the convention, there is a sense of fullness that has little to do with winning or losing. It is instead a recognition of having been part of a temporary community, one stitched together by games but held by something deeper: curiosity, generosity, and joy. The pieces will be put back in their boxes, the halls will return to quiet, but the echoes remain — reminders of the importance of slowing down, connecting, and playing.
And that, perhaps, is the simplest and truest conclusion: the games end, but the spirit of play endures.