When people think of games, their minds naturally leap to moments of victory and loss, to the dice clattering across the table, or to the tension of a carefully chosen card revealing its impact at just the right time. Yet the truth is, much of the pleasure of gaming lies outside those tense moments of gameplay itself. Consider the ritual of preparing for a session, the way players lovingly handle the cards, tokens, and boards, or even the long conversations that orbit a game before and after it is played. These “extra” aspects of gaming are not technically part of the rules or systems, but they nevertheless form a deep part of the hobby. They are the connective tissue between sessions, the ritualistic glue that gives meaning to play, and for many people, they can be as enjoyable—sometimes more enjoyable—than the game’s core activity. A prime example of this lies in role-playing games, where character creation often becomes a playground of imagination even before dice are rolled. Many players, myself included, find that building a persona, deciding their strengths and weaknesses, and shaping a backstory offers an entire game in itself, one that can be revisited, refined, and enjoyed without ever embarking on the larger adventure. This fascination with preparation, with the “before,” has become a vital design space for modern creators.
The excitement of character generation illustrates a deeper truth about play: people love to create. Games that offer creation outside of strict competition often resonate strongly because they appeal to both the imagination and the sense of ownership. When Keith Matejka designed Roll Player in 2016, he turned character creation into the heart of the experience. No longer was the act of rolling stats or selecting traits a prelude to the real game; instead, it became the real game. Similarly, Brad Talton’s Millennium Blades demonstrated that the meta-activities surrounding collectible card games—buying, trading, and curating a deck—could themselves provide a thrilling and strategic play experience. What both titles reveal is that there is an untapped joy in the “around the game” moments, and game designers are increasingly willing to make those moments central. This is why, as tabletop games evolve, we find that what was once considered peripheral can become the very focus of play. There is magic in recontextualizing what was once invisible labor or warm-up into a rewarding system.
Deck construction provides another excellent case study. Prior to 2007, the building of a deck was a private, solitary exercise undertaken before the main event. A player in Magic: The Gathering or Pokémon would spend hours pouring over cards at home, refining a build, sleeving up the final version, and then bringing it to battle. The preparation was invisible to the other players and was treated as a prerequisite rather than a legitimate arena of play. Yet with the release of Donald X. Vaccarino’s Dominion in 2008, this pre-game activity was reimagined as the main event. Deckbuilding was no longer a tool to reach the real game; it was the game. This single innovation did more than launch a new genre of hobby gaming; it showed that the margins of gaming—the parts outside the match itself—could be transformed into core mechanics. Today, deckbuilding stands as one of the most recognizable and beloved mechanisms in modern tabletop design, precisely because it captured the joy of construction, refinement, and forward planning in a system that feels dynamic every time.
Part of the appeal of deckbuilding and character creation lies in their deep sense of agency. These are activities where players feel in control, shaping the tools with which they will later play. In standard gameplay, players often react to circumstances beyond their control: dice rolls, opponent moves, card draws. But in these meta activities, players are architects of possibility. They are not just trying to win—they are expressing creativity, personal taste, and identity. Someone who enjoys designing a reckless, glass-cannon RPG character or a hyper-efficient economic deck is saying something about themselves. In this way, the meta game becomes a mirror of the player. This mirror can even persist across playgroups, where friends come to expect certain tendencies—“Oh, Sarah always builds resource engines,” or “Tom always plays chaotic characters.” These reputations, formed outside the game’s strict rule set, add layers of personality and humor that enrich the social fabric of play.
If we look beyond these well-documented cases, we see that the hobby is full of peripheral pleasures waiting to be gamified. Miniature painting, for example, is an enormous hobby in itself, one tied to tabletop war games like Warhammer 40,000. The act of painting is not part of the rules, but for many, it is the most rewarding part of the hobby. The same is true of map-drawing in role-playing games, where players or game masters lovingly sketch landscapes and cities. This has already inspired standalone games like Cartographers, where the activity of making a map becomes the entire experience. These examples prove that the periphery of gaming is fertile soil. Activities that once seemed ancillary can inspire whole new genres, and the growing creativity of designers ensures that more of these transformations will continue to emerge.
One of the fascinating side effects of embracing these “beyond gameplay” elements is how they alter the way players interact with games socially. Pre-game preparation often invites discussion, collaboration, and a sharing of tips or tricks. Entire online communities are built not around playing but around preparing to play: forums where players debate the merits of different builds, strategies, or card combos. This culture of analysis and speculation creates its own entertainment, often lasting far longer than the session itself. Here, we see the outlines of a truth: games are not just isolated events but ecosystems of interaction, stretching across time and space. The game box is not closed when the session ends; it continues to live in conversations, in hobby work, and in anticipation for the next match. Designers who can capture this ongoing engagement within the game itself often find success, because they tap into the rhythms of how players actually live with their games.
As a tool box for aspiring designers, the study of these meta activities is invaluable. By asking questions like “Which mechanisms can be pulled from the periphery?” and “Which activities could be transformed into mechanics?” designers expand the possibilities of what tabletop games can be. The challenge is not only to identify what players already enjoy outside the rules, but to create systems that formalize and enhance those pleasures without stripping away their spontaneity. Subverting expectations can be part of this: imagine a game where losing pieces between sessions or breaking cards becomes a designed mechanic, turning the “frustrations” of hobby logistics into sources of tension and fun. In such innovations lies the future of gaming. The boundary between play and preparation is dissolving, and with it comes an invitation to rethink what games are and what they can become.
One of the most overlooked joys of gaming comes from rituals, those repeated practices that surround play but are not formally acknowledged by the rulebook. Shuffling cards, setting up boards, sorting tokens, even rolling dice before the game “begins” to test their luck—all of these acts carry symbolic weight. They prepare the table, set the mood, and give players the sense that something important is about to happen. Rituals matter because they transform a casual gathering into a structured experience. Just as a theater performance is preceded by dimming the lights and a hush in the audience, gaming rituals create anticipation. These are not trivial details; they help players transition from the everyday world into the “magic circle” of play. Designers who understand this power can intentionally build setup and ritual into their systems, ensuring that the act of preparing a game is as meaningful as playing it. Gloomhaven, for example, involves elaborate setup and teardown, but rather than being a burden, this preparation can feel like gearing up for a grand expedition. The ritual becomes part of the narrative texture, reminding us that play does not begin with the first action—it begins the moment the box is opened.
Another dimension of “gaming beyond gameplay” lies in anticipation and speculation. Many hobbyists derive as much pleasure from imagining what a game might feel like as from actually playing it. Consider the excitement of watching trailers for a new board game release, reading early reviews, or joining Kickstarter campaigns where stretch goals and updates become a form of ongoing entertainment. This anticipatory play exists outside the boundaries of any single game, but it is nevertheless central to the culture of gaming. The community discourse—guessing how mechanics will work, comparing prototypes, predicting balance—forms a parallel game, one with its own rules of engagement. Designers often overlook this stage, but it is a fertile field for connection. Some publishers lean into it by releasing teaser content or encouraging fans to design mock cards, thereby letting anticipation itself function like play. The lesson is clear: even before the game reaches the table, the act of dreaming about it is a kind of game, one that sustains engagement and strengthens community bonds.
We can also think about aesthetic immersion as a form of peripheral joy. Many players love the visual and tactile elements of games—the art, the miniatures, the feel of shuffling cards or placing wooden meeples. These are not strictly part of the gameplay system, but they are crucial to the experience. The rise of deluxe editions and lavish Kickstarter campaigns testifies to the power of aesthetics. For some, painting miniatures or upgrading components is more rewarding than playing. This blurs the line between game and craft, reminding us that gaming is a multi-sensory hobby. Designers might ask: how can tactile and visual pleasures be more than decoration? Can the feel of components or the act of customizing them be turned into mechanics? Already we see hints of this in games where physical dexterity matters (Flick ‘em Up, Rhino Hero) or where aesthetic choices impact scoring (Canvas). The broader point is that the pleasure of touch and sight—often dismissed as “chrome”—can itself be gamified.
Finally, innovation often springs from asking which of these overlooked pleasures could be formalized. We have seen character creation become Roll Player, deck construction become Dominion, map drawing become Cartographers, and trading rituals become Millennium Blades. What comes next? Perhaps it will be the act of negotiating snacks at game night, or the ritual of deciding what to play. Perhaps it will be the logistics of setting up and tearing down, reimagined as part of the fun. By asking these questions, designers challenge the assumption that games are only about their mechanics. Instead, games can be about the entire ecosystem of activities that surround them. The beauty of this approach is that it respects what players already love doing. Rather than forcing play into narrow channels, it expands the definition of play to include all the rituals, reflections, and hobbies that orbit the tabletop. This expansion is not only innovative; it is liberating, opening the door to countless new designs.
The Joy of Gaming Beyond the Game
When most people think about what makes games fun, their minds instinctively jump to the moments that happen on the table: the clash of armies in a miniature wargame, the tense silence before someone flips a hidden role card in a social deduction game, or the surge of adrenaline as a dice roll lands in your favor. Yet for many hobbyists, the true magic of gaming does not reside exclusively in those peak moments of play. Instead, it is found in the quieter, subtler, and often overlooked activities that orbit the game itself. These moments—preparing, imagining, discussing, reflecting, and even handling the components—may not technically be part of the rules, but they are part of the experience. They are the connective tissue that transforms a collection of mechanics into a living hobby. In role-playing games, for example, I vividly remember being more fascinated by character creation than by the campaign itself when I first dabbled as a teenager. Hours could be spent deciding whether my character was a skilled archer with a tragic backstory or a clumsy mage destined to bumble into trouble. I was not alone in finding joy here; in fact, Keith Matejka’s Roll Player transformed character generation into the entire point of the game, proving that the so-called “side activities” of gaming can be just as, if not more, satisfying than the main course.
This fascination with pre-game creativity highlights a universal truth about why people play games in the first place. Beyond winning or losing, games give us a chance to shape something, to leave a mark, to express our identity through the tools they provide. Character creation in role-playing games scratches this itch perfectly. Players choose stats, assign skill points, imagine flaws, and sculpt personalities. These actions are not about outmaneuvering an opponent or solving a puzzle; they are about creating something uniquely yours. Designers like Matejka and Brad Talton—whose Millennium Blades simulated the very meta-activities of buying, trading, and collecting cards for a hypothetical collectible card game—realized that people enjoy the process surrounding games as much as the gameplay itself. Millennium Blades is especially telling because it reframes what was once considered external work—deck trading, shopping, and meta-strategy—as thrilling, structured play. The fact that such games are beloved suggests a larger design principle: everything around a game has the potential to become the game.
Perhaps no innovation illustrates this more dramatically than the rise of deckbuilding as a central mechanism. Before Donald X. Vaccarino’s Dominion hit the scene in 2008, deck construction was considered a solitary, preparatory activity. Players of Magic: The Gathering or Yu-Gi-Oh! would spend hours before tournaments refining their decks, scouring through binders, balancing mana curves, and predicting metagames. The actual play began only once the deck was sleeved and shuffled. What Vaccarino realized was revolutionary: the fun of building a deck—choosing, curating, and adapting—could be shifted from the periphery into the spotlight. In Dominion, the act of constructing a deck became the whole experience, with every turn offering small decisions about how your future options would unfold. This simple reframing gave birth to a genre and proved that designers could pull peripheral joys into the center stage. It also demonstrated that players crave the sense of authorship and ownership that comes from building, even more than the competition of executing a finished plan.
Why do these peripheral activities resonate so strongly? One reason is the sense of agency they provide. In a typical game, players are often at the mercy of chance, opponents, or restrictive rules. Dice betray, cards disappoint, and rival strategies dismantle your carefully laid plans. But in pre-game or meta activities like character creation and deck construction, players feel empowered. They are not reacting; they are designing. This agency fosters investment, because the choices feel deeply personal. A reckless player might build an all-in offensive deck or create a fragile, volatile RPG character because that suits their personality. A cautious player might carefully hedge risks, creating a slow but resilient strategy. Over time, these tendencies become signatures, part of a group’s shared lore—“Jenny always plays the reckless rogue,” or “Alex always finds a way to build an engine.” These reputations, formed in the spaces around formal gameplay, add richness to the social experience. They transform gaming into an act of self-expression as much as strategy.
Moreover, the activities outside the game often last longer and live deeper in memory than the game itself. Consider miniature painting. For some, Warhammer 40,000 is not about measuring line of sight or rolling dice; it is about carefully painting a squad of Space Marines, customizing colors, and building a personal army that feels like an extension of oneself. The painting and modeling hobby, which technically occurs outside gameplay, is often the main draw for thousands of fans. Similarly, map-drawing in role-playing games has inspired standalone titles like Cartographers, where the joy of sketching landscapes and filling in fantastical details is the heart of the experience. These examples reveal how powerful it can be to recognize hobbies adjacent to gaming as play in their own right. A designer who turns “side work” into structured fun is not trivializing the hobby but elevating it, acknowledging that the act of preparing and imagining is play, too.
There is also a social dimension to these peripheral pleasures. For every hour spent playing, many gamers spend twice as long talking about games—before, during, and after. Online forums, Discord servers, and gaming conventions buzz with discussions not just about victories but about strategies, builds, combos, and speculation on new releases. This meta-discussion becomes a game of its own, where the “moves” are predictions, counterarguments, and shared insights. Reflection after a session can be even more rewarding than the session itself: recounting blunders, laughing at lucky rolls, and debating alternate strategies. Legacy games have tapped into this by leaving physical traces that invite storytelling between sessions—stickers on the board, destroyed cards, evolving narratives. The fact that these elements become cherished memories demonstrates how much of the joy of gaming is bound up in conversation and community. Designers who encourage reflection and meta-talk, rather than treating them as afterthoughts, create games that live on long after the final turn.
When viewed through this lens, it becomes clear that the future of game design lies not only in refining mechanics but in embracing the entire ecosystem of play. What rituals and hobbies surrounding games might be formalized next? We have already seen character sheets turned into games, deck construction elevated to a genre, and map-making transformed into standalone titles. But what about organizing components, negotiating snacks for game night, or even the democratic ritual of choosing which game to play? Each of these could be gamified, offering new ways to channel the joys players already experience. The designer’s challenge is to ask: which aspects of play have been overlooked, and how might they be celebrated? By paying attention to the edges of gaming—the before, the after, the around—we discover a wellspring of innovation. For many players, these edges have always been the best part. The task now is to design with them in mind, not as incidental byproducts, but as the very heart of play.
The Expanding Joy of Meta-Gaming
If we look deeper into the psychology of why these surrounding activities feel so compelling, it becomes apparent that they tap into fundamental human desires for creation, anticipation, and identity formation. Anticipation itself is a powerful form of pleasure; many players would argue that the build-up to a game night, complete with messages back and forth about which title to play or discussions about strategies, is as enjoyable as the event itself. This anticipatory joy mirrors the experience of waiting for a new movie release or a sports event, but in games it becomes more intimate because players themselves are participants rather than mere spectators. Activities such as creating characters, building decks, or even choosing expansions to include for a session stretch out this anticipation, allowing enjoyment before the official start. It is not merely that players want to win but that they want to savor every stage of the journey. When game designers transform this anticipation into structured experiences, they capture a form of engagement that is uniquely sticky—something that hooks players well before the first die is rolled or the first card is drawn.
In fact, much of modern board game culture has flourished because designers understood how to harness this energy of anticipation and expand it into meta-games that players actively pursue. Consider how Legacy games, pioneered by Rob Daviau with Risk Legacy and popularized through Pandemic Legacy, amplify anticipation by building a campaign that promises surprises hidden in sealed boxes and envelopes. The physical presence of these mysteries triggers a long, slow build of expectation across multiple sessions, where the “waiting to see what happens next” becomes just as much of the fun as actually resolving the new twist. Legacy games turn what once might have been casual pre-game chatter about “what to play” into meaningful speculation about evolving rules and storylines, further intertwining the meta-experience with the core gameplay. The emotional weight of these surprises lingers, giving players reasons to discuss the game outside the table, sometimes for days or weeks, which is a crucial way these designs extend their life and impact.
Another revealing angle is how peripheral activities often allow players to bring more of themselves into the game, shaping it into a mirror of their tastes, creativity, and personality. Painting miniatures, for instance, goes far beyond a hobbyist’s sense of duty to prepare pieces for battle—it becomes an art form and a form of ownership. Each color scheme, each carefully applied highlight, signals the player’s identity, distinguishing their army or faction from every other. This personalization deepens the emotional connection to the game because victories and defeats now feel entwined with personal investment. Similarly, role-playing character creation is as much about self-expression as it is about utility. Players may make suboptimal choices because those decisions tell a story they care about. The blend of creative freedom and narrative attachment explains why people are willing to spend countless hours engaging in these “extraneous” tasks without ever rolling a die. The deeper truth is that these activities are not extraneous at all; they satisfy the human drive to shape worlds and tell stories, something games are uniquely positioned to provide.
There is also an important social component to these activities, one that reinforces bonds within gaming groups. Building characters together, drafting decks before a campaign, or even debating over which snacks to bring to the table all contribute to a ritualized sense of belonging. These moments outside formal play establish the group’s culture, creating inside jokes, traditions, and shared memories that persist across many sessions. For example, a group that always laughs about one member’s habit of naming characters in ridiculous ways might come to view character creation not only as a mechanical necessity but as the highlight of their shared time together. The conversation around games, often dismissed as idle chatter, is in fact a critical social mechanism that builds group cohesion. Designers who understand this can structure their games to encourage such interactions, whether by providing flexible character sheets that invite creative interpretation or by including collaborative pre-game elements that ensure everyone feels engaged before the first turn begins.
The commercial side of the hobby also reflects the pull of these peripheral joys. The explosion of expansions, promos, and deluxe upgrades speaks directly to the desire to engage with games outside their immediate rules. Publishers have realized that many players delight in collecting, organizing, and curating their collections as much as actually playing them. Storage solutions, card sleeves, playmats, and custom inserts are marketed to those who see the preparation and maintenance of a game library as an enjoyable ritual. Similarly, crowdfunding platforms like Kickstarter capitalize on the anticipation cycle by offering stretch goals, exclusive components, and ongoing updates that keep backers invested long before they receive the physical product. The entire funding process has become a kind of pre-game meta-experience, where participants relish the act of imagining future play and watching the project evolve. This phenomenon underscores just how expansive the concept of “play” can be: it includes not only the structured rules of a game but also the fantasies, aspirations, and routines surrounding it.
Design-wise, this recognition opens fertile ground for innovation. If character creation, deckbuilding, painting, and collecting can all evolve into central mechanics, then what other adjacent experiences might be waiting to be explored? Could the act of teaching a game—usually considered a necessary hurdle—be transformed into a playful contest or cooperative puzzle? Could the negotiation of house rules, often debated endlessly in groups, become part of a game’s official structure? Even the logistics of scheduling and organizing game nights, currently relegated to group chats and calendars, could be gamified into playful experiences. We are only beginning to see how the edges of gaming can provide raw material for entirely new designs. In this way, the boundary between game and non-game is porous, with the potential for surprising innovations whenever designers dare to ask: why do players enjoy this surrounding ritual, and how might it be given shape as a game?
Perhaps the most profound implication of focusing on the surrounding aspects of gaming is that it reframes what we think of as play itself. Play is often defined narrowly as the act of engaging with formalized rules within a bounded space, but in truth, it spills outward, touching the rituals, conversations, preparations, and memories that extend before and after the official session. When players reminisce about old campaigns, proudly display their painted miniatures, or daydream about new expansions, they are still playing in a broader sense. Recognizing this can change how we design and how we participate in the hobby. It suggests that games are not just temporary escapes into structured worlds but ongoing, evolving experiences that weave into the fabric of our lives. By designing with this holistic perspective, creators can build not only better games but richer communities and more enduring forms of joy.
When we consider how gaming continues to evolve, the most exciting breakthroughs are often not in the refinement of dice probabilities or the streamlining of rulebooks, but in how designers reimagine the very edges of play. The success of games like Roll Player, Millennium Blades, and Dominion show that what was once background work or pre-game preparation can be elevated into central mechanics, turning what players casually enjoyed into the heart of a new genre. This realization is profoundly liberating for designers because it expands the canvas of what counts as gameplay. No longer must design be limited to conflicts resolved within turns; instead, it can embrace the anticipation of a session, the lingering memories afterward, and the social rituals that frame the hobby. In fact, the ability to capture joy from these surrounding experiences may be one of the most powerful ways to innovate in an increasingly crowded marketplace of titles. A game that recognizes and channels these edges feels fresh, even if its mechanical core borrows from familiar genres.
Consider how negotiation and preparation could serve as fertile ground for new designs. In nearly every group, there is the ritual of deciding what to play, often stretching into lengthy debates, enthusiastic lobbying, or compromises where some members yield their preferences for the sake of harmony. While this process is not typically seen as part of gaming, it can be as strategic and socially rich as any tabletop mechanic. A designer could formalize this process, creating a “meta-game” where choosing the session’s activity involves resource management, persuasion, or hidden objectives. Perhaps players might earn points for successfully swaying the group toward their choice, or for strategically conceding when the timing benefits them most. Such a design would acknowledge what already happens informally and invite players to engage with it knowingly as play. By spotlighting what was once incidental, it transforms group negotiation into a structured joy.
Teaching a game is another overlooked ritual that could be gamified into a meaningful experience. Currently, explaining rules is often considered a hurdle—necessary but tedious. Yet teaching is, in its own way, a performance: a blend of clarity, timing, and improvisation. What if a game included a system that rewarded or challenged the teacher, making their explanation a playful activity rather than a chore? For example, a party game might require the explainer to give rules using only certain words, gestures, or limitations, while the group scores points based on how quickly they grasp the rules. Alternatively, in a strategic setting, different players could be tasked with explaining different aspects of the rules, each with hidden incentives that shape how they present the information. This not only acknowledges the reality of teaching but transforms it into another layer of design. Suddenly, the act of onboarding itself becomes engaging rather than burdensome, contributing to the broader fun of the session.
The Overlooked Dimensions of Play
When we push further into the idea that the joy of gaming often extends beyond the official boundaries of play, we begin to notice how flexible and expansive the notion of play really is. Play does not have to mean the execution of strict rules or the pursuit of victory points; instead, it can encompass the rituals, anticipations, preparations, and reflections that orbit around the game itself. This broader definition is why players so often find themselves delighted by moments that were never intended as the main focus. Consider the act of simply unboxing a new game. Lifting the lid, punching out tokens, shuffling cards for the very first time, and inhaling that oddly satisfying smell of fresh cardboard—all of these are experiences that feel playful, even though they do not fit into the formal structure of the rules. For many, this unboxing stage rivals the first session itself, as it embodies the thrill of novelty, discovery, and ownership. Designers rarely take direct advantage of this unboxing ritual, but the excitement it produces hints at how powerful the “edges” of gaming can be when they are recognized as valid, even vital, parts of the overall experience.
The process of collecting and curating is another dimension of peripheral joy that deserves close attention. In the world of trading card games, miniature wargames, or even modern board games with endless expansions, the act of building and maintaining a collection is a form of play unto itself. It is not just about acquiring useful cards or figures but about expressing taste, personality, and aspirations. Some players revel in the hunt for rare promos, others in the satisfaction of having a complete set, and still others in customizing their collection to align with a theme or aesthetic that appeals to them. This collecting behavior, while often commercially driven, scratches the same itch as character creation or deck construction: it is about shaping identity and crafting a personal relationship with the game world. The time and energy spent organizing binders, cataloguing miniatures, or sleeving cards is not a distraction from gaming but an extension of it, providing endless opportunities for self-expression and pride.
It is worth considering how this urge to collect and curate has reshaped the business of games as well. Publishers understand that many players enjoy this dimension of the hobby so much that they are willing to spend more time and money on the trappings than on the core experience itself. Special editions, component upgrades, storage solutions, and even fan-made accessories thrive precisely because they transform the peripheral aspects of gaming into deliberate rituals. But beyond the commercial layer, this phenomenon speaks to a deeper truth: players crave a sense of continuity and control that stretches across multiple sessions. A collection is not just a pile of components; it is a history of play, a record of investment, and a toolbox for future experiences. This awareness gives designers permission to design not only for the table but for the shelf, the cabinet, and the hobby room, crafting games that acknowledge and reward the joy of maintenance, curation, and ownership.
Social bonds form another critical dimension of peripheral play, and these bonds often find their roots in what happens before, after, or around the session rather than during the structured rules of the game. Think about the conversations that happen as players arrive, the banter as pieces are set up, or the debrief afterward where everyone laughs about the most dramatic or ridiculous moments of the game. These exchanges can sometimes overshadow the game itself in memory, with the rules serving only as scaffolding for the real experience: connection. A role-playing campaign might be remembered not for the precision of its dice mechanics but for the inside jokes created along the way, the shared memories of characters who became beloved, or the rituals of snacks and drinks that became inseparable from the sessions. In this light, the game becomes a stage for something much more enduring—the creation of community. Designers who acknowledge this social reality can lean into it, encouraging interaction through mechanics that reward storytelling, laughter, or collaborative world-building.
Another area where peripheral joy manifests is in the meta-discussions and analysis that players indulge in outside of sessions. Fans of collectible card games, for instance, spend countless hours debating deck strategies, theorizing about upcoming expansions, and dissecting competitive results. Entire forums, YouTube channels, and podcasts exist to support this culture of speculation and analysis. The actual play may occupy only a few hours each week, but the hobby consumes minds daily through these discussions. Even in non-competitive settings, board gamers often relish the process of ranking games, creating “top ten” lists, and speculating about new releases. This kind of conversation is not idle—it extends the sense of engagement and makes the hobby feel alive between sessions. Designers who build games that encourage this kind of meta-discussion, whether by fostering modularity, strategic depth, or narrative possibilities, effectively create ecosystems rather than one-off experiences.
Memory-keeping also deserves a place among these overlooked dimensions of play, because many players find as much joy in remembering games as in playing them. Think of the way role-playing groups keep campaign journals, or the way legacy games leave behind scarred boards and altered cards as artifacts of past decisions. These remnants carry emotional weight, reminding players of the narratives they created together. Some players go further, creating scrapbooks, recording podcasts of their sessions, or drawing maps of their adventures. These acts of documentation are not side projects but integral parts of the play cycle, helping groups relive their experiences long after the sessions have ended. A well-designed game can encourage this by providing tools for memory-making—blank spaces for notes, prompts for storytelling, or even mechanics that explicitly tie future play to past decisions. In this way, memory itself becomes a layer of play, transforming games into stories that outlive their sessions.
Ultimately, the recognition of these peripheral joys changes how we define and value games. It challenges the narrow assumption that play begins with setup and ends with cleanup, suggesting instead that the entire lifecycle of engagement is meaningful. From anticipation to preparation, from collection to social bonding, from meta-discussion to memory-keeping, every stage offers opportunities for creativity, expression, and connection. For players, this means the hobby is richer than it might appear at first glance, with endless avenues for enjoyment beyond the pursuit of victory. For designers, it means the canvas of design is far broader than they might have imagined, encompassing not only the rules and mechanics but the rituals and experiences that surround them. To embrace this perspective is to recognize that games are not bounded experiences but living cultures, woven into the fabric of social and personal life, and capable of delivering joy in places we once overlooked.
Conclusion
The exploration of gaming through the lens of its overlooked and peripheral dimensions leads us to a profound rethinking of what it means to play, and what it means to belong to a gaming culture. We have seen that the essence of gaming does not reside solely within the narrow confines of rulebooks, dice rolls, and turn structures, but in the orbit of experiences that surround and enrich those sessions. By following this broader arc, we recognize that the story of gaming is really a story of anticipation, ritual, self-expression, community, memory, and creativity that far surpasses the mere mechanics of winning or losing. This expanded understanding matters not only for how we appreciate games as players but also for how designers and publishers might reconceive their craft, placing equal weight on the before, after, and around of play as much as the during.
When we think of gaming as a holistic cycle, we begin to see why it has become such a powerful cultural force. It is not just that people enjoy sitting around a table or logging into a digital lobby for a few hours; it is that the gaming experience stretches far beyond those hours into daily life. The preparation that goes into selecting a game for a night, the joy of opening a box and punching out tokens, the ritual of carefully painting miniatures or sleeving cards, the playful banter shared before the first move, the spirited debates about strategy long after the game has ended—all of these together construct an ecosystem of engagement. This ecosystem explains why games can inspire lifelong devotion and form communities that persist for decades. It also explains why players return again and again to the same titles: not always because of the core mechanics but because of the broader rituals and relationships they have built around them.
Memory is one of the most potent elements in this cycle. Players do not simply recall scores or outcomes; they carry stories, jokes, and shared moments forward. A campaign that stretched over months, a dramatic dice roll that saved a character, or even a ridiculous misplay that became legendary within a group—these memories lodge themselves into the fabric of identity and friendship. Games thus act as vehicles for memory-making, and their value increases exponentially when designers recognize and support this. Legacy mechanics, campaign structures, and even blank spaces for notes are not frivolous additions but tools for turning ephemeral play into lasting narrative. For players, the joy of returning to a scarred legacy board or a weathered character sheet is as real as the first roll of the dice. The conclusion is clear: memory is not an accident of gaming but one of its central pleasures.
The social dimension cannot be overstated, because games at their heart are about people. Whether competitive or cooperative, they function as excuses to gather, to talk, to laugh, to argue, and to connect. Many who participate in role-playing games, board games, or collectible card games look back years later and remember not the precision of the mechanics but the bonds forged during play. The snacks shared, the friendships deepened, the sense of belonging to something larger than oneself—these are the aspects that endure. Even solo gamers are rarely truly alone, since they often engage through forums, videos, and discussions that link them into a community of others who share their passion. In this way, gaming functions not merely as entertainment but as social glue, a framework that sustains human connection in an increasingly fragmented world.