Few board games have captured the imagination of players quite like Gloomhaven. Celebrated for its vast scope, intricate mechanics, and promise of an unfolding epic, it stands as one of the most ambitious tabletop experiences ever created. With over ninety scenarios, evolving characters, and a legacy system that reshapes the world with each decision, it offers the allure of a campaign that rivals long-running stories in depth and complexity. Yet, within this grandeur lies a paradox. What begins as an adventure of discovery often shifts into a test of patience, where repetition, setup, and sheer length start to overshadow the magic. This reflective exploration traces the rise and eventual weariness of a campaign that demands everything from its players—time, energy, and persistence. Beyond the mechanics, it reveals how Gloomhaven shapes not only evenings at the table but also the way we understand commitment, reward, and shared storytelling.
First Impressions of an Era
When Gloomhaven first entered my collection in 2018, it carried the weight of monumental expectations. Board games were still a smaller passion for me back then, and cooperative campaigns felt like a new frontier. Legends of Andor had given me a brief taste of this world, but its campaign length was fleeting compared to the towering promise of Gloomhaven.
The unboxing itself remains etched in memory. Cardboard sheets stacked high, waiting to be punched, components nestled like hidden treasures, sealed envelopes promising future revelations. The simple act of exploring the box stretched for more than an hour, each layer unveiling a new element of mystery. This was not just a board game; it was an entire experience housed in one package.
The Early Thrill of Discovery
Our first session arrived the following week, and the excitement was palpable. Sitting around the table, each of us selected a character, received our career goals, and began navigating the intricate blend of dungeon crawling with carefully structured card play. The mechanics felt both familiar and refreshing—Euro-style precision merged with adventure-driven exploration.
Every choice carried weight. Movement and combat were governed not by dice but by cards, creating a puzzle-like elegance. It demanded planning, foresight, and sometimes painful sacrifice. The campaign offered the allure of progression, with new content to unlock and stories to reveal, and this kept us returning to the table week after week.
The System of Career Goals
The inclusion of career goals gave Gloomhaven a unique sense of purpose. Characters were never static; they had ambitions that, once fulfilled, marked the end of their journey. Retiring a character was bittersweet, but it came with the excitement of unveiling new possibilities. This cycle provided a continuous loop of renewal, ensuring no single campaign ever felt too stagnant.
The structure echoed reward systems familiar in digital spaces. Much like mobile games dangling constant incentives, Gloomhaven kept players motivated through its layered progression. Whether through unlocking a hidden envelope, revealing a new character, or gaining access to side missions, the game thrived on the psychology of discovery.
A Group Enthralled by the Experience
What made the early stages so captivating was not just the game itself, but the shared enthusiasm of my group. Everyone was invested. The fusion of cooperative strategy with legacy mechanics brought us together in a way few games had achieved. The combination of shared victories, close defeats, and the ongoing storyline created a rhythm that became a ritual.
Playing every one to two weeks, we carved out time to immerse ourselves in this world. It felt like entering a second life, where each session offered another chapter in an unfolding saga.
Expanding Horizons Beyond Gloomhaven
As months passed, my collection began to expand. Titles of various styles entered my shelves, broadening my understanding of what board games could offer. This was when I began to notice a shift in my own preferences. Just as in video gaming, where I rarely invested endless hours into one title, I discovered that I valued variety in board gaming as well.
Unlike some players who dedicate themselves to a single experience for years, I found that repetition diminished my enjoyment. Gloomhaven demanded loyalty, often at the expense of other titles. For some, this exclusivity was appealing, but for me it gradually became restrictive.
The Nature of a Lifestyle Game
Gloomhaven is the definition of a lifestyle game. Its campaign can easily dominate a player’s schedule, limiting space for other pursuits. For groups meeting only occasionally, progress can stretch over years. This immersion is part of its charm, yet it also creates tension for those who prefer rotating through different experiences.
In my case, this was the turning point. While my group remained steadfast in its commitment, I began to feel trapped by the demands of the campaign. My growing collection called for attention, yet Gloomhaven monopolized our table time.
Discovering the Solitary Path
Out of this frustration emerged a new discovery: solo play. Initially, I had never considered playing board games alone, as the social aspect had always been central to the hobby. But with Gloomhaven consuming group time, solo gaming became an appealing alternative.
What started as an experiment soon developed into a genuine appreciation. Playing alone allowed me to explore different titles at my own pace, free from scheduling conflicts or campaign obligations. It was not a replacement for group play, but it offered its own sense of satisfaction.
The Uneven Journey of Career Progression
As the campaign advanced, cracks in the system of career goals became evident. Some characters reached their objectives swiftly, sometimes within just a few sessions. Others languished, session after session, with no progress in sight. This imbalance created moments of frustration and inequity among players.
As the organizer of the group, I took it upon myself to mitigate these issues. I began planning sessions carefully, selecting scenarios that aligned with players’ goals to ensure forward momentum. This added responsibility, however, shifted the experience. The game began to feel less like a shared adventure and more like a logistical exercise.
The Burden of Impossible Goals
The realization that some career goals were unachievable within the remaining scenarios was particularly disheartening. After thirty-plus sessions, discovering that a player’s character could never complete their journey undermined the sense of purpose the system was meant to foster. It highlighted a structural flaw that made the game feel less rewarding and more arbitrary.
The effort required to anticipate these pitfalls—reviewing scenarios, cross-checking requirements, and planning attendance—added a layer of overhead that clashed with the intended joy of play.
The Homogeneity of Scenarios
Another element that dulled my enthusiasm was the similarity between scenarios. Despite boasting over ninety missions, the majority followed the same formula: enter, battle enemies, and proceed to the next room. Only a small handful stood out, such as memorable boss fights or scenarios with unique objectives like activating levers.
Quantity did not translate into quality. While the campaign promised breadth, it often lacked depth. I began to wonder whether fewer but more thoughtfully designed scenarios would have provided a richer and more memorable experience.
Comparisons to Shorter Campaigns
The difference became especially clear when reflecting on other campaign games. Sword & Sorcery, for example, offered far fewer scenarios, but each felt distinct and engaging. I found myself replaying its short campaign multiple times with genuine enjoyment.
This reinforced a personal preference: I would rather revisit a concise but compelling campaign than endure a lengthy one that blurred together. Gloomhaven’s vastness, once a selling point, became a liability in my eyes.
Content as Both Strength and Weakness
At first, the abundance of content was exhilarating. Gloomhaven seemed to overflow with possibilities—new enemies, new characters, new environments. Yet as time went on, this very abundance became overwhelming. Many enemy types felt redundant, their differences subtle to the point of irrelevance.
The same applied to map tiles and status effects. While variety was meant to enrich the experience, it often complicated setup and added layers of bookkeeping without delivering meaningful variation. The sheer volume of components made the game feel bloated rather than expansive.
The Cumbersome Setup
Setup time became a recurring frustration. Without organizational aids, preparing for a session could take nearly three-quarters of an hour. Investing in an insert cut this down significantly, but the fact that such a solution felt necessary underscored the game’s logistical demands.
What began as excitement over a treasure trove of content gradually transformed into weariness over the constant preparation. Instead of eagerly diving into play, I often felt the weight of obligation in simply setting up the game.
Characters and Play Styles
The wide array of characters was another double-edged sword. While the variety allowed for diverse play styles, not every character resonated with my group. Some felt uninspired or poorly suited to our preferences. Though the option to switch characters existed, it added to the sense that not all content was equally rewarding.
This diversity, while intended to enhance replayability, at times contributed to the feeling of dilution. Sixteen characters might sound impressive, but when only a few truly captured our interest, the rest felt like filler rather than meaningful additions.
Shifting Dynamics Within the Campaign
The early stages of Gloomhaven had been filled with excitement, but as the sessions accumulated, I started to sense a gradual shift in my relationship with the game. Where I once anticipated each gathering with eagerness, I began to feel the creeping weight of routine. The same mechanisms that initially seemed ingenious started to lose their freshness. The careful planning of cards, the dance of initiative, and the unlocking of envelopes all remained, but the sense of novelty faded session by session.
This decline in enthusiasm was not mirrored by my group. They remained invested, keen to see the campaign unfold to its fullest. I, however, began to feel as though I was carrying an invisible burden—committed more out of loyalty to the group than genuine excitement for the game.
The Growing Collection
One undeniable factor in this shift was the growth of my board game library. By the time we had played over twenty sessions, my shelves were lined with titles of diverse genres. Deck-builders, worker-placement games, thematic adventures, and shorter cooperative experiences all beckoned for attention. Each offered something distinct, yet they gathered dust as Gloomhaven consumed our playtime.
This imbalance created a subtle frustration. I wanted to explore, to experiment, to rotate through different games the way I rotated through books or films. But the reality of a lifestyle campaign meant that Gloomhaven monopolized our table. The more my collection grew, the more I realized that the commitment to this single campaign clashed with my evolving preferences.
Solo Play as a New Outlet
In response, I turned to solo play. This was uncharted territory for me, as I had always associated board games with social interaction. Yet the limitation imposed by the campaign created an appetite for something different. Playing alone initially felt experimental, but soon it became an established part of my hobby.
Solo gaming allowed me to rediscover the joy of variety. It gave me space to engage with titles that my group overlooked or had little interest in. It also introduced a meditative aspect to the hobby—quiet sessions where strategy and story unfolded at my pace. While it could never replicate the camaraderie of group play, it offered a valuable complement.
The Uneven Pace of Career Goals
As the campaign advanced, the flaws in the career goal system grew more noticeable. Some players retired characters quickly, cycling through fresh options in just a handful of sessions. Others remained stuck, grinding through mission after mission with no visible progress. This disparity created a lopsided experience that disrupted the balance of the campaign.
For those achieving goals early, the excitement of unlocking new content reinforced their enthusiasm. For those lagging behind, frustration mounted. Watching one player celebrate retirement while another remained tethered to an unfulfilled objective created tension that the game itself struggled to address.
Planning Sessions as a Hidden Burden
Because I had taken on the role of organizer, I felt compelled to intervene. I began reviewing upcoming scenarios, mapping which ones aligned with players’ goals, and tailoring our path through the campaign accordingly. What should have been a straightforward progression became a logistical puzzle.
This planning extended beyond simple scenario selection. Attendance varied from session to session, meaning certain players might miss opportunities to progress their goals. The more I tried to balance these factors, the more Gloomhaven felt like an administrative task rather than a leisure activity.
Unreachable Objectives
The breaking point came when I realized that some goals were impossible to achieve with the scenarios remaining. After investing dozens of hours into the campaign, discovering that a player’s objective was unattainable left me questioning the system. It felt unfair to ask someone to pour time into a character only to learn that their conclusion was structurally out of reach.
This realization sapped much of the joy from organizing sessions. Instead of eagerly planning the next adventure, I found myself double-checking whether frustration awaited someone at the table. The asymmetry of goals, once an innovative feature, had turned into a source of dissatisfaction.
Scenarios That Blended Together
Beyond the issue of goals, another problem surfaced: the sameness of scenarios. Although the campaign offered a vast number, only a few stood apart in memory. A couple of unique boss fights and a lever-activation mission remain clear in my mind, but the rest blur into a homogeneous cycle of entering rooms and defeating enemies.
This repetition dulled the sense of exploration. Where early sessions had been filled with curiosity about what awaited us, later ones carried a sense of predictability. Even the introduction of new enemies rarely altered the overall rhythm. The campaign, once sprawling with promise, now felt like a long corridor lined with near-identical doors.
The Illusion of Abundance
Gloomhaven’s scale was initially one of its greatest strengths. Opening the box revealed a treasure trove of content—characters, enemies, tiles, events, and more. Yet as the sessions accumulated, I began to question whether abundance equated to depth. Many enemy types felt interchangeable, offering only minor variations that failed to justify the added complexity.
The same applied to the sprawling map tiles and status effects. While they contributed to the sense of grandeur, they also inflated setup times and increased the mental load of each session. The abundance that had once felt generous began to feel excessive, even unnecessary.
The Challenge of Setup and Organization
The logistical demands of the game became a recurring obstacle. Setting up a session often took close to an hour without organizational aids, a process that drained energy before play even began. Investing in an insert streamlined this to a more manageable half-hour, but the need for such a solution highlighted the cumbersome nature of the design.
Instead of anticipating the story or strategy, I found myself dreading the time required just to prepare the game. This was compounded by the cleanup afterward, which stretched even longer when exhaustion had already set in.
Characters as a Mixed Blessing
The diversity of characters initially seemed like another strength. Each offered unique mechanics and play styles, adding depth and variety to the campaign. However, not all characters resonated equally. Some felt uninspired or ill-suited to our group’s preferences, creating moments of disengagement.
While the option to retire and switch characters mitigated this issue, it reinforced the sense that the sheer number of options did not equate to universal appeal. Sixteen characters might sound impressive, but only a fraction truly captivated us. The rest existed more as filler than meaningful choices.
The Story That Failed to Linger
One of the most surprising aspects of the campaign was how forgettable its narrative proved to be. For a game of such scale and ambition, the story should have been a central pillar. Yet after forty sessions, the only event that remains vivid in my mind is a humorous encounter involving a stranger in the bushes.
This lack of narrative resonance left the campaign feeling hollow. While the mechanics and progression systems carried the game forward, the absence of a compelling story meant that emotional investment dwindled over time. Without memorable moments of narrative impact, the sessions became exercises in mechanics rather than chapters in a tale worth recalling.
The Aggravation of Lost Turns
Few mechanics grated on me more than wasted turns. Miscommunication within the group, misaligned initiatives, or the unlucky draw of a miss card turned moments of anticipation into disappointment. The restriction on discussing exact actions amplified these frustrations, as misunderstandings were inevitable.
Losing a turn felt not only unproductive but disheartening. In a game where each action carried weight, the sensation of watching a carefully planned strategy collapse into nothingness was particularly galling. It undermined the sense of agency and chipped away at the satisfaction of play.
The Strain of Acting as Organizer
Perhaps the most significant factor in my growing fatigue was the role I had assumed within the group. Managing the campaign, tracking progress, organizing sessions, and overseeing rules placed me in the position of an unofficial game master.
This dual responsibility—playing my character while managing the broader framework—split my attention. For my group, the experience was primarily about their characters and their choices. For me, it became a balancing act of logistics and play, half enjoyment and half administration.
Overhead as an Invisible Opponent
The overhead of Gloomhaven was relentless. Between managing enemy decks, tracking multiple status effects, and monitoring scenario rules, the burden of upkeep overshadowed the thrill of play. Even within sessions, the sheer number of enemies on the board could stretch into double digits, each requiring its own movement and action resolution.
Instead of focusing on strategy and immersion, I found myself bogged down in procedural minutiae. The unpredictability of enemy cards further complicated this, as planned actions often fell apart due to sudden changes in behavior. The puzzle-like nature of the game was undermined by this constant disruption.
The Endless Calculations
One of the defining traits of Gloomhaven is its complexity, a feature that initially distinguished it from simpler cooperative titles. Each turn involves weighing cards, tracking initiative, predicting enemy behavior, and synchronizing with allies. Early in the campaign, this complexity felt invigorating, a mental workout that rewarded foresight and precision. Yet as time passed, the same layers that once energized me began to drain my enthusiasm.
The accumulation of details often slowed the game to a crawl. Even straightforward scenarios stretched into hours, not because of narrative depth, but because of the sheer calculations required to manage the systems. A single round could involve several players agonizing over card choices, followed by the resolution of multiple enemy decks. The relentless pace of arithmetic dulled the excitement that should accompany combat.
Enemies That Multiplied Beyond Reason
The number of enemies placed on the board frequently tipped from challenge into tedium. Facing ten or more opponents at once required so much upkeep that the combat lost its urgency. Instead of daring maneuvers or clever positioning, the table was filled with repetitive tasks: flipping enemy ability cards, moving miniatures, resolving attacks, and updating health dials.
These moments highlighted the tension between design ambition and practical enjoyment. What should have felt like epic confrontations instead resembled accounting exercises. The idea of hordes sounded thrilling in theory, but in practice, it magnified the administrative weight already burdening the group.
The Restriction of Limited Communication
The rule preventing precise communication about card play introduced another layer of friction. While intended to preserve mystery and prevent over-optimization, in reality, it often caused confusion and irritation. Players would hint vaguely about their intentions, only for misinterpretation to derail carefully considered plans.
In cooperative games, coordination usually produces satisfaction, but here, restrictions diluted that feeling. A missed signal could mean an entire turn wasted, a critical move undone, or an enemy left unchallenged. Instead of laughter or tension, these moments often produced exasperated sighs.
The Puzzle That Wasn’t Always a Puzzle
Gloomhaven markets itself partly as a tactical puzzle, but this framing doesn’t fully hold. A true puzzle relies on predictable pieces and consistent outcomes, yet here, unpredictability disrupts the structure. The enemy decks inject randomness that prevents players from calculating moves with certainty. This randomness creates an awkward paradox: a game that demands precision while undermining it through chance.
When an enemy unexpectedly moves further than anticipated or delivers an unplanned attack, the strategy collapses. Rather than feeling challenged, I felt cheated, as though the rules bent not to outsmart me, but to nullify my efforts.
The Grind of Experience Points
The promise of character growth is central to Gloomhaven’s allure. Leveling up, acquiring new cards, and unlocking perks provide milestones that sustain long campaigns. Yet the pursuit of experience points introduced a different kind of grind. Players often found themselves prioritizing actions that maximized personal growth rather than advancing group objectives.
This subtle tension distorted the cooperative spirit. Instead of unified strategies, decisions occasionally skewed toward individual advantage. It wasn’t sabotage, but it reflected a clash between the thematic promise of teamwork and the mechanical incentives of progression.
Unlocking New Characters
The retirement system promised constant novelty, with fresh characters waiting in sealed envelopes. Initially, the allure of unveiling a new playstyle carried excitement, but not all characters justified the effort. Some introduced fascinating mechanics that revitalized interest, while others felt clunky, underpowered, or overly complex without delivering proportional reward.
The uneven quality of these unlocks revealed another challenge of abundance. Sixteen options sound impressive, but variety without consistency risks disappointment. When a long-awaited character proved underwhelming, the sense of progression faltered, as though the reward had not been worth the journey.
The Burden of Storage and Organization
Physical logistics became their own adversary. The sheer volume of components demanded meticulous storage solutions. Sleeved cards, health trackers, monster stat sheets, tokens, and map tiles spilled across containers and organizers. Even with dedicated inserts, the act of setting up and packing away each session consumed significant time.
This burden had a cumulative effect. The thought of spending an hour managing plastic and cardboard before and after every game chipped away at motivation. On nights when energy was already low, the overhead became an obstacle strong enough to dissuade play entirely.
Rule Ambiguities and Disputes
Despite its meticulous design, the game occasionally stumbled into ambiguity. Certain interactions between cards and scenario rules required lengthy consultation of the rulebook, and even then, interpretations varied. These disputes stalled momentum and occasionally sparked frustration within the group.
In cooperative play, clarity is essential, yet here, rules often demanded negotiation. While some players enjoyed the process of dissecting mechanics, for others, it felt like a distraction from the experience. Over time, these debates chipped away at immersion, transforming storytelling moments into technical arguments.
The Emotional Plateau
As campaigns lengthen, maintaining emotional engagement becomes more difficult. Early sessions brimmed with anticipation—what would the next scenario reveal, which envelope might we unlock, what new strategy would emerge? Yet by the fortieth session, much of that spark had faded. The rhythm of combat, the flavor text of scenarios, and the incremental upgrades had all settled into predictable patterns.
The plateau was not dramatic but gradual, a slow decline that left me wondering why I persisted. I continued playing partly out of commitment to my friends, partly out of inertia. The genuine thrill had dissipated, leaving routine in its place.
The Fragility of Group Cohesion
Group campaigns live or die on cohesion. Schedules must align, interests must overlap, and enthusiasm must be shared. While my friends remained invested, I began to drift. My growing preference for variety clashed with their dedication to seeing the campaign through. This imbalance subtly strained our sessions, as my disengagement contrasted with their continued excitement.
Though unspoken, such dynamics ripple across the table. Enthusiasm is contagious, but so is fatigue. I worried that my lack of energy might diminish their enjoyment, yet stepping away felt impossible given the commitment we had all made.
The Silence of the Narrative
For all its mechanics, Gloomhaven struggled to tell a memorable story. The branching paths and scenario outcomes promised dynamism, but in practice, the narrative impact was shallow. Choices felt consequential in the moment yet faded quickly from memory.
This lack of resonance was striking. A campaign of this scale should have etched unforgettable moments into my mind, yet only isolated details remain vivid. Without a strong narrative backbone, the campaign became less an epic saga and more a prolonged sequence of battles.
When Commitment Becomes Obligation
The central tension of the campaign was not within its scenarios but within myself. The longer we played, the more the sessions shifted from leisure to obligation. I felt tethered to the game, not out of joy but out of responsibility to the group and to the momentum we had built.
Obligation transforms play into labor. The excitement of rolling dice or flipping cards becomes overshadowed by the sense of duty to show up, to organize, to carry the campaign forward. Once that shift occurs, it is difficult to recapture the original spark.
Searching for Balance
Recognizing this fatigue, I sought ways to restore balance. I experimented with rotating other games into side sessions, carving out time for solo play, and delegating some organizational duties. These adjustments helped but could not fully counteract the inertia of a sprawling campaign.
Ultimately, the weight of complexity, both mechanical and logistical, had become inseparable from the experience. The game’s ambition was undeniable, but ambition without moderation risks exhausting those who engage with it.
The Beauty and the Burden
Gloomhaven stands as both a triumph and a trial. Its mechanics, depth, and ambition are unmatched in the hobby, yet those same qualities make it overwhelming. For some, the challenge of complexity is exhilarating, the abundance of content a treasure. For me, over time, it became a weight too heavy to carry with the same joy I felt at the beginning.
The Allure of Epic Scale
When I first opened the enormous box, I felt an undeniable thrill. The sheer size suggested an adventure of staggering proportions. Dozens of sealed envelopes, stacks of cards, sprawling maps, and miniatures hinted at secrets waiting to be revealed. The promise of a campaign stretching over years filled me with anticipation. For a while, the epic scale was enough to sustain motivation. Every session felt like one more step into an expansive universe that rewarded commitment.
But as weeks turned into months, I began to realize that the scale itself was not inherently meaningful. Length and volume do not automatically equate to depth. The sheer duration of the campaign became more of a trial than a treasure, a marathon where the finish line blurred into the distance.
When Variety Masks Repetition
One of the most fascinating contradictions of the campaign was the illusion of variety. With so many scenarios, characters, and events, the game seemed endless in possibilities. Yet beneath the surface, many experiences repeated themselves with only minor alterations. Enter a room, face a set of enemies, manage initiative, burn cards, and repeat.
Occasionally, a scenario introduced something novel—a shifting battlefield, a unique objective, or a dramatic enemy. But these were scattered too thinly across the campaign. More often than not, we returned to familiar patterns, which diminished the sense of wonder. The richness of components camouflaged the repetition, but over time, the disguise became easier to see through.
The Strain of Long Sessions
The campaign demanded sessions of considerable length. A single scenario could stretch across three or four hours, depending on the complexity of the setup and the number of players. While this initially felt immersive, it eventually proved draining. Long sessions became difficult to fit into busy lives, requiring coordination of schedules, energy, and patience.
This logistical challenge was magnified when scenarios ended in failure. After hours of meticulous play, watching the mission collapse and realizing we had to repeat it created immense frustration. Instead of feeling motivated to try again, the group often felt exhausted. The length of each attempt amplified both the stakes and the disappointment.
The Subtle Impact of Player Count
Another factor shaping the campaign was the number of players at the table. With two or three, the game felt manageable, even brisk at times. Decisions came quicker, the board remained less cluttered, and the pace of play carried momentum. With four, however, the experience slowed dramatically. The downtime between turns lengthened, the enemies multiplied, and coordination became more fragile.
While Gloomhaven technically accommodates a range of player counts, in practice, the experience varied dramatically. The larger the group, the more the burden of complexity revealed itself. I came to prefer smaller sessions, but group loyalty kept us returning as a quartet, even when the pace dragged.
Misaligned Expectations
Every campaign carries the weight of expectations. For some at the table, the thrill came from tactical mastery, for others from character progression, and for a few, simply from the social act of gathering. The campaign tried to provide for all these desires but did not always succeed in balancing them.
I often sought narrative immersion, yet the game offered little to satisfy that craving. Others cared primarily about optimizing cards and maximizing damage, which the mechanics supported more strongly. These differences in expectations occasionally created subtle disconnects. While we all enjoyed the game, we were not always enjoying it in the same way.
The Fatigue of Constant Combat
The relentless focus on combat scenarios eventually became monotonous. While the occasional puzzle-like mission or unique boss added flair, the overwhelming majority of play revolved around battling through rooms of enemies. This combat-centric structure contrasted with the expansive presentation of the world. The map suggested political intrigue, mystery, and adventure, but the actual gameplay rarely left the battlefield.
The disparity between presentation and reality left me wanting more. I longed for moments of genuine storytelling or exploration beyond combat encounters, yet those moments remained rare and fleeting. The game promised a living world but delivered primarily a string of tactical skirmishes.
The Unequal Weight of Choices
One of the game’s selling points was the presence of branching decisions—whether in scenarios, events, or story arcs. At first, these choices seemed impactful, offering the group a sense of agency over the campaign’s direction. But with time, it became clear that many branches converged or carried little long-term consequence.
Even when a choice altered reputation or unlocked a scenario, the ripple effects were shallow. Rarely did we feel the weight of a decision echo through the campaign. The illusion of choice was powerful early on, but once exposed, it weakened the narrative draw of the experience.
Progression That Outpaced Challenge
As characters advanced, acquiring new cards and perks, the balance of difficulty shifted. Some scenarios became noticeably easier, not because of improved teamwork but because our characters had grown disproportionately powerful. This imbalance diminished tension. Instead of carefully scraping through missions, we occasionally steamrolled enemies with overwhelming force.
Paradoxically, the very system designed to reward commitment undermined the challenge. Leveling up and optimizing decks should have felt like triumphs, but instead, they sometimes reduced the game’s engagement. Difficulty that fails to scale with progression risks draining drama from a campaign of this size.
Economic Systems That Fell Flat
The in-game economy provided another source of disillusionment. At first, collecting gold to buy new gear felt motivating. But as the campaign advanced, the system revealed its limitations. Many items lacked appeal, with only a handful providing meaningful impact. This narrowed the excitement of shopping and diminished the sense of reward for accumulating wealth.
When gold no longer translated into compelling choices, the motivation to pursue it waned. The economy existed as a mechanic but failed to sustain engagement over the long haul. Instead of evolving alongside the campaign, it stagnated.
The Hidden Cost of Commitment
What struck me most as the campaign stretched onward was the hidden cost of commitment. Each session represented not just hours of play but also hours of preparation, coordination, and emotional energy. This investment grew heavier the longer we continued.
At the beginning, the cost seemed worthwhile, outweighed by novelty and excitement. But as repetition and fatigue crept in, the balance shifted. The return on investment diminished, leaving the weight of commitment more visible. Continuing felt necessary not because of joy but because of the time already spent.
Lessons in Patience
Despite its flaws, the campaign taught me patience. It demanded tolerance for long stretches of setup, extended turns, and occasional setbacks. It required navigating disagreements, adjusting expectations, and persevering through fatigue. These lessons extended beyond the game itself, shaping how I approached other hobbies and commitments.
Patience, however, has limits. There comes a point where perseverance transforms into endurance, where continuing feels less like growth and more like stubbornness. For me, Gloomhaven eventually reached that point.
The Social Fabric
What sustained me longest was not the game but the group. The laughter, the shared meals, the inside jokes—all of these mattered more than the mechanics unfolding on the board. The campaign became as much about friendship as it was about gameplay. Even when fatigue weighed heavily, the social bonds kept me returning.
This realization shifted my perspective. Gloomhaven functioned less as a game and more as a framework for gathering. The campaign’s true success was not measured in scenarios completed but in evenings spent together. In this sense, its greatest achievement was not mechanical but social.
A Reflection on Ambition
Gloomhaven stands as a testament to ambition. Few games dare to aim for such scope, and fewer still succeed in bringing it to life. Yet ambition carries risks. By stretching so far, the design exposed cracks—repetition, imbalance, logistical burdens, and narrative shallowness.
Ambition without restraint can overwhelm as easily as it can inspire. The campaign’s vastness was impressive, but sometimes a more focused design might have delivered a tighter, more resonant experience.
The Emotional Divide
By the latter half of the campaign, I often found myself split between admiration and exhaustion. I admired the ingenuity of the mechanics, the sheer volume of content, and the dedication it must have taken to create. But I also felt exhausted by the weight of playing it, the repetition of scenarios, and the logistics of maintaining momentum.
This divide defined much of my experience. Gloomhaven was both remarkable and draining, both inspiring and fatiguing. Living in that contradiction became the essence of my relationship with the game.
The Allure That Faded
At the start of the journey, Gloomhaven felt like a monument to creativity. The sprawling map, sealed envelopes, and promise of countless scenarios ignited my imagination. Each evening of play brought fresh enthusiasm, as if we were stepping into an evolving legend. Yet somewhere along the way, that spark dulled. What had once felt like an epic adventure gradually transformed into a commitment weighed down by routine.
The decline in excitement was not sudden but gradual, creeping in session by session. What began as anticipation for new revelations eventually became weariness at repeating the same motions. This fading allure is perhaps the most striking element of the campaign’s long arc.
The Burden of Overhead
Every session demanded effort before the first turn was taken. Setting up the map tiles, preparing the decks, arranging the enemies, and ensuring the rules were followed consumed an immense amount of time. While such rituals initially heightened anticipation, they later became obstacles to enjoyment.
What was once charmingly intricate grew cumbersome. By the midpoint of the campaign, the setup process felt like work. I often thought about how many shorter, leaner games could have been played in the same amount of time. The overhead was not only physical but mental, as remembering nuanced rules and special exceptions required constant vigilance.
When Complexity Turns Counterproductive
The game’s complexity provided both satisfaction and strain. The tactical puzzle at the heart of each scenario was rewarding when everything clicked. Yet the same intricacy also created moments of frustration. Managing multiple decks, monitoring enemy abilities, and juggling status effects demanded near-constant attention.
Complexity itself is not the problem; many games thrive on it. But here, the complexity often overshadowed the flow of play. Instead of immersing myself in the unfolding adventure, I was buried under layers of management. The sense of wonder was diluted by bookkeeping.
The Mastery That Never Fully Arrived
Despite dozens of sessions, I never felt like a true master of the rules. Each session required revisiting details, double-checking interactions, or clarifying exceptions. While the tactical system was innovative, its depth also meant it resisted full absorption.
Some players relish endless discovery within rulesets, but I longed for fluency—the ability to focus on decisions without pausing for interpretation. This lack of mastery contributed to the fatigue, as every session contained moments of interruption. Instead of seamless storytelling, the campaign delivered frequent halts for technical clarifications.
The Exhaustion of Enemy Management
Perhaps the most tangible source of fatigue came from managing the enemies. With multiple types on the board, each with its own deck and modifiers, the administrative load grew immense. Drawing enemy cards, resolving effects, applying modifiers, and keeping track of positions often consumed more attention than guiding my own character.
The battlefield at times felt less like a tactical playground and more like an exercise in resource management. While unpredictability added tension, it also disrupted the sense of control that makes puzzle-solving satisfying. Instead of planning carefully and executing cleverly, I often found myself reacting to arbitrary swings in enemy behavior.
The Narrative That Could Not Hold
Storytelling was one of the weakest elements of the campaign. While the framework suggested an expansive world filled with factions and conflicts, the actual narrative lacked vitality. Decisions felt superficial, events were forgettable, and scenario texts blurred into one another.
After dozens of sessions, I could scarcely recall significant narrative beats. The game created a world of numbers and mechanisms, but failed to embed a compelling story within it. For a campaign of this magnitude, the lack of narrative resonance was glaring. The story became background noise rather than a driving force.
The Illusion of Legacy
The legacy elements—stickers on the map, sealed envelopes, evolving cities—were initially captivating. They promised permanence and consequence, transforming each session into part of a larger whole. Yet as the campaign advanced, this illusion weakened.
Stickers felt more like chores than milestones, and unlocking content often revealed more of the same rather than something transformative. The permanence, once exciting, became limiting. Mistakes felt etched in stone, not dramatic but constraining. The legacy systems became symbols of upkeep rather than engines of wonder.
Character Journeys and Their Limits
The progression of characters stood out as one of the strongest aspects of the game. Unlocking new cards, retiring heroes, and discovering fresh classes created moments of genuine excitement. Each retirement marked both an ending and a beginning, providing a tangible sense of continuity.
Yet even here, the limits surfaced. Some career goals proved frustratingly difficult to achieve, creating an imbalance in the pace of retirements. While one player might retire quickly, another could languish in the same role for dozens of sessions, unable to progress. This unevenness created resentment and highlighted flaws in design.
When Rewards Lose Their Shine
The game relied heavily on constant rewards: new cards, items, envelopes, and scenarios. Early in the campaign, this system was intoxicating. Every session offered something new to strive for, mirroring the psychological pull of digital games that thrive on incremental progress.
But as the campaign lengthened, the shine of these rewards dulled. Unlocking yet another scenario or acquiring another marginally useful item failed to inspire the same excitement. The very system that once fueled motivation became predictable. When rewards lose their sparkle, repetition becomes more visible.
The Problem of Similar Scenarios
While the campaign boasted more than ninety scenarios, the reality was that many felt nearly identical. Clear the room, defeat the enemies, and proceed. Only a handful introduced mechanics that broke this mold.
This sameness undercut the value of the campaign’s size. Instead of ninety distinct adventures, it felt like ninety variations on a theme. A shorter campaign with greater variety might have left a stronger impression. In its attempt to be massive, the game spread itself too thin.
The Energy of the Group
What truly kept the campaign alive was the group. Even when the game itself felt draining, the social energy of gathering carried us forward. Shared triumphs, laughter at unexpected failures, and the camaraderie of teamwork provided the glue.
Yet reliance on group energy also made the campaign fragile. When enthusiasm wavered, the game had little to compensate. Unlike shorter, self-contained games, this campaign required collective commitment over months and years. The moment one person faltered, the whole structure risked collapse.
The Emotional Cost of Continuation
Continuing with the campaign eventually felt less like enjoyment and more like an obligation. The sheer investment of time created a sense of sunk cost. To stop would mean admitting that all the hours spent had not led to completion. This psychological trap held us longer than genuine excitement did.
But obligation cannot sustain joy indefinitely. The emotional cost of forcing continuation grew heavier with each session. Eventually, the burden outweighed the benefits. Ending the campaign became an act of liberation rather than failure.
Lessons for the Future
Reflecting on the journey revealed lessons about my own preferences. I discovered that I am not drawn to lifestyle games that dominate a gaming schedule. I prefer shorter campaigns, tighter narratives, and experiences that leave space for variety.
I also learned to value clarity over complexity, story over repetition, and focus over abundance. These lessons have influenced every game I have chosen since. Gloomhaven shaped not just my evenings but my perspective on gaming itself.
The Legacy Beyond the Table
Even though fatigue ended my campaign, Gloomhaven’s influence cannot be denied. It demonstrated the possibilities of scale, ambition, and design. It inspired countless other games, expanded the market for cooperative campaigns, and set a new standard for crowdfunding success.
Its flaws are real, but so is its significance. The game altered the landscape, paving the way for others to refine and reimagine what a campaign board game can be. Its presence echoes beyond individual tables, leaving a mark on the culture of gaming itself.
Conclusion
Looking back across the entire journey, Gloomhaven remains both a marvel and a challenge. Its ambition reshaped what many thought a board game could achieve, stretching the boundaries of scale, cooperation, and mechanical depth. For some, it became a second home, a project that demanded discipline and offered a steady rhythm of discovery. For others, it revealed the limits of endurance, reminding us that not every adventure can or should last forever.
The long campaign illuminated the tension between immersion and obligation. The thrill of early exploration eventually collided with the weight of routine, and yet, within that conflict lay important truths. Games are not only about mechanics or story, but about the people around the table, the energy they bring, and the experiences they share. Even when fatigue set in, the memories created together endured beyond the maps, cards, and sealed envelopes.
In many ways, the legacy of Gloomhaven is not the completed campaign but the reflections it sparks. It teaches us to recognize when wonder turns to burden, and when to cherish the moments that truly matter. Its presence lingers, not only as a game, but as a reminder of how vast and demanding shared journeys can be.