Some experiences in life reveal their beauty immediately, while others ask for patience. Board games often fall into the second category. A first play can leave you scratching your head, questioning the praise that others heap upon a title. But with time, repeated plays, and perhaps expansions that highlight hidden depth, these games can transform from “just okay” to treasured parts of a collection. In this series, I want to share some of the games that did exactly that for me. They are not necessarily my all-time favorites, nor are they the “best” in a universal sense, but they represent journeys of discovery where my opinion shifted dramatically.

Before exploring the main list, it’s worth considering what it means for a game to grow on someone. Unlike instant hits that dazzle at first glance, slow-burn games require a change in perspective. Sometimes it’s familiarity with the rules; other times, it’s a matter of learning the strategies that unlock the design. Themes, expansions, or even the right group of players can also reshape the experience. When a game improves with age, it’s often a sign of depth beneath the surface — something that rewards commitment rather than instant gratification.

Let’s begin with two examples: one considered a foundational title in modern gaming, and another that combines euro-style mechanisms with striking world-building.

Dominion – Discovering the Heart of Deck-Building

When Dominion first arrived on the scene, it was nothing short of revolutionary. The idea of building your own deck of cards during play — rather than bringing one pre-constructed — opened doors for countless future designs. For years, Dominion stood as the reference point for the entire genre. Yet, for me, the initial spark wasn’t there.

I added Dominion to my early collection because it felt like a must-own. Everyone spoke about its importance, and the rules promised quick, snappy sessions. But after a handful of plays, I wasn’t reaching for it. The base set felt straightforward, even limited, and I often opted for other titles that offered richer themes or heavier decision-making. Dominion lingered on the shelf as something I appreciated in theory, but not in practice.

That changed gradually. The turning point came when I explored expansions, particularly Prosperity. With new cards that rewarded generating wealth and introduced powerful late-game options, Dominion began to feel alive. The economy shifted, strategies branched in unexpected ways, and the sense of building toward something bigger became more satisfying. Suddenly, the design clicked. The elegance of the system revealed itself not in flashy art or theme, but in the mathematical dance of efficiency and timing.

Over time, I began to value Dominion’s purity. Unlike hybrid titles that mix deck-building with worker placement or area control, Dominion keeps the spotlight firmly on the central mechanism. Every decision matters, and small optimizations can snowball into victory. It’s the type of game where experience pays off — the more you play, the more you understand which cards work together, when to pivot strategies, and how to balance short-term gains with long-term goals.

Today, Dominion has earned a place as a reliable, quick game to bring out when I want something streamlined. It doesn’t demand hours of commitment, and yet it still rewards sharp thinking. The fact that my opinion shifted so much speaks to how designs like this reveal their strengths slowly. What once seemed plain now feels polished.

Scythe – From Admiration to Appreciation

Scythe entered the hobby with a bang. Released in 2016, it turned heads immediately thanks to its lavish production: giant mechs towering over pastoral landscapes, player mats full of wooden pieces, and art that told a story of alternate-history Eastern Europe. Owning Scythe felt like holding a work of art. Yet the gameplay didn’t capture me in the same way.

At first, I admired the look more than the feel. The mechanisms — part engine-building, part area control — seemed clever but cold. After a game, I often packed it away and left it untouched for months. It wasn’t that Scythe was bad; it just didn’t pull me back. The asymmetry felt uneven, and the flow of play lacked the spark that makes you crave another session.

The turning point came with The Rise of Fenris. I had heard glowing reviews of the expansion, describing it as a campaign that reshaped the base game and offered evolving challenges. For years, I resisted buying it, reasoning that I didn’t play Scythe enough to justify the cost. But when an opportunity appeared, I took the plunge — and I’m glad I did.

Playing through Fenris transformed my experience. The campaign format gave structure to repeated plays, adding narrative hooks and new modules that deepened the system. It encouraged me to explore Scythe’s mechanisms more fully, to try strategies I had overlooked, and to appreciate the subtleties of engine-building within its framework. Each session built upon the last, and by the time the campaign ended, I realized I finally liked Scythe for more than just its appearance.

Looking back, I think the expansion served as a bridge. It wasn’t only the new content that improved things, but the fact that it pushed me to play consistently. Repeated exposure revealed strengths I had missed: the balance of military presence with economic growth, the importance of timing your star placements, and the satisfaction of upgrading your actions into efficient machines. What once felt mechanical became engaging, layered, and rewarding.

That said, I still acknowledge Scythe has its limitations. Without Fenris, I’m not sure I would return to it as often. But even so, I’ve learned to value the base mechanisms more than before. Scythe is no longer just a beautiful box on my shelf; it’s a game I appreciate, even if my enjoyment comes with caveats.

The Value of a Second Chance

Dominion and Scythe highlight different paths to appreciation. With Dominion, expansions unlocked the elegance hidden in its simplicity. With Scythe, a campaign revitalized my willingness to engage with its world. In both cases, my initial lukewarm impressions gave way to deeper enjoyment, proving that patience and persistence can pay off.

What unites these experiences is the idea of growth. A game may not dazzle at first, but given the right conditions, it can evolve in the eyes of the player. Sometimes it’s about learning the rhythm of play. Sometimes it’s about finding the right expansion or the right group. And sometimes, it’s simply about timing — a game that felt flat years ago might resonate in a different stage of life.

These journeys are reminders that board gaming, like any hobby, is not static. Tastes change, skills sharpen, and experiences build upon each other. Games that once gathered dust can later become favorites. It’s a dynamic relationship, one that reflects the evolving ways we interact with play, challenge, and creativity.

In the next part of this series, I’ll explore three more titles that followed similar arcs: games that I initially dismissed or underestimated, but which gradually carved a place in my collection. Together, these stories illustrate how opinions are never fixed — and how some of the most rewarding discoveries come not from love at first sight, but from love that grows over time.

When Familiar Faces Become Favorites

First impressions are powerful, but they can also be misleading. A game might look beautiful yet feel shallow, or appear bland only to reveal incredible depth later on. In the world of board gaming, it’s common to hear about “hype trains” — moments when a new title sweeps through the community, praised for its innovation, artwork, or production values. Sometimes, playing those games doesn’t match the buzz. Other times, the game might seem fine but not exceptional, leading to indifference.

Yet the story doesn’t always end there. With more plays, the right group of people, or even the addition of expansions, those once-overlooked games can evolve into experiences you look forward to. This second part of the series examines two such games: one whose charm is wrapped in woodland whimsy, and another that thrives on political intrigue and calculated conflict.

Everdell – Beyond the Adorable Critters

When Everdell first hit tables, it made waves. The towering tree that holds cards, the stunning illustrations of woodland creatures, and the pastoral theme instantly captured attention. It was the sort of production that seemed designed to make people stop and stare. But beneath the art, Everdell was — at least on my first play — “just another worker-placement game.”

The mechanisms felt familiar: place a worker, take resources, build a tableau of cards that grant abilities or points. I remember enjoying the aesthetic but wondering why the game was so heavily praised. The balance of luck in the card draw frustrated me at times, as my tableau felt limited by what happened to appear. After a session or two, I thought I had seen what the game had to offer, and I didn’t feel an urge to return often.

But Everdell is a game that rewards giving it space. When I finally added it to my collection and played more regularly, especially at two players with my partner, the design began to reveal itself. Its strengths don’t always lie in high-stakes competitiveness or dramatic twists. Instead, Everdell offers a gentle rhythm — the kind of experience that flows smoothly once you learn how to navigate its timing.

A large part of the appeal lies in pacing. Each season introduces new workers, and with them, new opportunities. Early turns can feel constricted, but as your tableau grows, so do your choices. The arc of play mirrors the cycle of nature: starting small, expanding into abundance, then closing the year with everything in place. That narrative rhythm became more apparent as I replayed the game, and I started appreciating the elegance of its structure.

Luck, while still present, became less frustrating once I embraced flexibility. Rather than hunting for a single ideal card, I learned to build strategies around what I had. This adaptability mirrors many great tableau-builders: the skill lies in making the most of the tools at hand, rather than waiting for a perfect option. Over time, I discovered combos and synergies that felt deeply satisfying, moments when a chain of effects unfolded smoothly and rewarded clever planning.

Another reason Everdell grew on me is that it never overstays its welcome at lower player counts. With two, the game moves quickly, and turns feel brisk. The table presence still shines, but without dragging into excessive downtime. It became a reliable game for weeknights — engaging enough to feel meaningful, yet approachable enough to set up and finish without exhaustion.

The thematic charm also deserves mention. While I originally dismissed the cute animals as surface-level appeal, I’ve come to value them more. They soften the competitive edges, making the experience feel cozy even when points are at stake. The world of Everdell invites you in, asking you to build a thriving woodland city, and there’s a comfort in that familiarity.

Is Everdell groundbreaking? Not really. But it doesn’t need to be. It’s a game that balances accessibility with satisfying depth, one that becomes richer with repeated plays. For me, it shifted from “just another tableau-builder” to one of my preferred options when I want something both beautiful and mechanically smooth. What once felt overhyped has now earned its place on the table.

Dune: Imperium – A Lesson in Patience and Power

Where Everdell won me over with charm, Dune: Imperium did so through persistence. At first glance, the game felt underwhelming. The art, while functional, lacked the polish of other big-box titles. The theme — rooted in Frank Herbert’s Dune universe — didn’t grab me initially, as I hadn’t read the novels or seen the films. And the deck-building element felt constrained, with limited opportunities to craft exciting combos. After a first play, I walked away puzzled. Why was this game so widely praised?

The answer unfolded slowly. With more plays, and particularly after adding the Rise of Ix expansion, the design started to shine. Dune: Imperium blends deck-building with worker placement, and that hybrid structure takes time to fully appreciate. It isn’t about building wild engines of cards like Dominion or Clank!. Instead, it’s about subtle efficiency: using your limited cards to influence factions, secure resources, and position yourself on the board.

At first, that restraint felt like a flaw. But I came to see it as a feature. The tension in Dune: Imperium lies in scarcity — of actions, of cards, of resources. Each decision carries weight because you cannot do everything. Should you push for military strength to win conflicts? Should you court the support of the Emperor or the Bene Gesserit? Do you build your deck toward efficient resource generation, or focus on combat tactics?

The game forces tough trade-offs, and those choices gain meaning over time. Early plays felt frustrating because I didn’t grasp how small decisions cascaded into long-term effects. Once I learned to plan a few turns ahead, the game’s depth revealed itself. It wasn’t about building the flashiest deck, but about aligning short-term needs with long-term positioning.

The theme also grew on me. Watching the films provided context that enriched the experience. Suddenly, the factions had more weight, and the conflicts on Arrakis carried greater meaning. What once felt like abstract icons became part of a larger narrative tapestry.

Still, what truly cemented Dune: Imperium’s appeal was expansion content. Rise of Ix added layers that smoothed rough edges, giving players new options and more control over their strategies. It introduced intrigue and variety, reducing the feeling of being trapped by a weak hand of cards. With these tools, the game became more dynamic and replayable.

Even so, I don’t consider Dune: Imperium flawless. I still prefer Lost Ruins of Arnak for its sense of adventure and exploration. But what once left me cold has now become a game I genuinely enjoy. The satisfaction of winning a critical conflict or executing a perfectly timed alliance is immense. Over time, I’ve come to respect how finely tuned the balance is — a balance that only reveals itself with repeated exposure.

The Common Thread

Everdell and Dune: Imperium may seem very different on the surface — one whimsical, the other political and tense — yet they share a key quality: they both asked me for patience. Neither dazzled me immediately. Both demanded repeated plays, new contexts, and even expansions to fully appreciate.

Everdell taught me to slow down and embrace rhythm and flexibility. Dune: Imperium showed me the power of scarcity and long-term planning. Together, they remind me that games are not always about instant gratification. Sometimes, the most rewarding titles are the ones that resist easy conclusions, inviting you to peel back layers at your own pace.

In the next part of this series, I’ll move on to two of the most popular games in modern hobby culture. One is a global hit centered on birds and engine-building, while the other belongs to a trilogy of medieval-inspired euros. Both challenged me in different ways, and both exemplify how tastes can evolve with time.

Finding Depth Where I Least Expected It

Some games immediately sweep you up with their charm. Others leave you puzzled after the first play, wondering why the hype exists. And some simply don’t work the first time — maybe because the group wasn’t right, the pace dragged, or the mechanisms didn’t click. But board gaming is rarely about single experiences. Much like books, films, or music, a second encounter can transform your understanding.

In this part of the series, I’ll reflect on two games that fit that bill: one a global phenomenon that brought countless newcomers into the hobby, and the other a dense, strategic euro that initially left me cold. Both now occupy unique positions in my collection, and both remind me how opinions can evolve with time.

Wingspan – From Frustration to Flow

Few games in modern board gaming have achieved the mainstream recognition of Wingspan. Its success was meteoric. Almost overnight, it seemed everyone was talking about it. The combination of soothing artwork, an accessible theme about birds, and streamlined engine-building made it a crossover hit. For many, Wingspan became a gateway into the hobby.

But my first play was far from magical. I found the famous birdfeeder dice tower more frustrating than fun. I struggled with the balance of strategies, especially when the egg-laying path seemed overly dominant. And while I could admire the beauty of the illustrations, I wasn’t personally drawn to the subject matter. Birds simply weren’t something I cared about deeply. My initial impression was that the game was fine, but not worth the immense praise.

What changed my mind? Time and expansions. After giving the game more opportunities, I started to notice the satisfying rhythm hidden in its simplicity. The turns are short, the actions straightforward, yet the outcomes build into something greater. By the end of a session, you look back at your tableau of birds and marvel at the engine you’ve created — a little ecosystem of powers and interactions. That sense of growth is subtle but rewarding.

The Oceania expansion was particularly transformative. By reworking the food system and softening the dominance of eggs, it addressed many of my frustrations. Suddenly, resources felt more balanced, and strategies diversified. I no longer felt boxed in by the luck of the dice or limited pathways. Instead, I could pursue different approaches and feel competitive. This shift made the game click for me in a way it never had before.

I also realized that Wingspan shines best at lower player counts. With two or three, the game flows briskly, and downtime is minimal. At higher counts, however, the pace drags, and the game overstays its welcome. Recognizing this helped me enjoy it more. Now, I view it as a perfect weeknight game: relaxing, beautiful, and satisfying in a calm way. It’s not about intense competition but about building something meaningful over time.

The theme, while not my personal passion, also began to win me over. There’s something refreshing about a game that celebrates nature without conflict. Instead of battling opponents, you’re filling habitats with species, each one tied to real-world traits. It feels educational in the best way — not heavy-handed, but subtly enriching.

Wingspan will never be my absolute favorite game. I don’t crave it in the way I crave heavier euros or adventure-driven titles. But I now understand its appeal and appreciate its place in the hobby. It’s a reminder that games don’t always need to be dramatic or complex to be enjoyable. Sometimes, they just need to be satisfying, approachable, and consistent.

Paladins of the West Kingdom – A Solo Revelation

If Wingspan surprised me by becoming a soft favorite, Paladins of the West Kingdom shocked me even more. My first experience with the game was rough. It was a three-player session that dragged on far too long, with mechanisms that felt overly convoluted and a pace that drained the energy from the table. I walked away unimpressed, thinking it was just another heavy euro drowning in complexity for its own sake.

But Paladins had one hidden strength I didn’t recognize at the time: its solo mode. Months later, when I decided to revisit the game alone, I discovered a completely different experience.

The solo system is one of the best I’ve encountered. It’s run by an AI deck that simulates a rival player, blocking spaces and scoring points in a way that feels natural and challenging. The system is simple enough to manage but clever enough to push you strategically. Rather than feeling like a puzzle against a static set of rules, it felt like playing against an opponent who forced me to adapt.

Playing solo also solved the pacing issue. Without the downtime of multiple players, the game flowed much more smoothly. Turns felt snappy, and I could complete a session in a reasonable time. This opened the door for repeated plays, which in turn allowed me to understand the design more deeply.

Paladins is a game of interlocking systems. Each decision ripples across multiple tracks: faith, strength, influence, provisions, suspicion. At first, it felt overwhelming, like too much to juggle at once. But once I began to see how the pieces connected — how investing in one track could unlock opportunities in another — the brilliance of the design emerged. The game rewards careful planning and sequencing, with multiple viable strategies to pursue.

Thematically, Paladins also grew on me. The idea of defending a kingdom against external threats while also building inward structures gave context to the mechanisms. Assigning workers of different colors to specific tasks felt thematic and logical: red for military strength, blue for faith, black for construction. The palette of decisions matched the narrative, creating cohesion between mechanics and story.

Even now, I remain cautious about playing Paladins at higher counts. It simply isn’t a game that shines with three or four players, at least not for me. But as a solo or two-player experience, it has become one of the most rewarding in my collection. The depth, the tension, and the challenge of optimizing limited resources create a rich strategic puzzle that I’ve grown to love.

Lessons from These Two Journeys

Wingspan and Paladins couldn’t be more different on the surface. One is light, thematic, and accessible; the other is heavy, complex, and demanding. Yet both followed a similar path for me: disappointment at first, followed by gradual appreciation as I discovered their strengths.

In the case of Wingspan, it was about letting go of expectations. I had been looking for intensity and innovation, when in fact the game’s appeal lies in its calm beauty and approachable design. It became enjoyable once I allowed it to be what it is, rather than what I wanted it to be.

For Paladins, it was about persistence and adaptation. My first multiplayer session was nearly enough to turn me away forever. But trying it solo unlocked the experience the designer intended: tight, strategic, and satisfying. It taught me that context matters as much as design. A game that doesn’t work with one group or player count might shine in another.

Both also highlight the value of expansions and variants. Wingspan’s Oceania expansion improved balance and made the game flow better. Paladins’ solo mode offered a fresh perspective that changed everything. In both cases, additional content or alternative modes revealed the game’s true potential.

The Slow Burn of Board Gaming

When I think back on the games that have grown on me, I’m struck by how different they are. One is a minimalist deck-builder. Another is a sweeping engine-builder set in an alternate-history Europe. Then there are woodland critters constructing villages, interstellar politics fought with cards and cubes, a bird-filled engine-builder, and a dense medieval euro brimming with interlocking systems. They could not be more varied in theme, style, or complexity. And yet, they all share one common thread: I didn’t appreciate them fully at first.

This raises an important question: why do some games require time to reveal their appeal? Why do we walk away from a first play unimpressed, only to later find ourselves reaching for that same game again and again?

The answer, I think, lies in a blend of design, psychology, and context.

First Impressions and Their Limits

First impressions matter. When we sit down to a new game, we’re influenced by components, art, rules explanations, and the energy of the group. A game that looks dazzling might carry us through a mediocre first session on excitement alone. Conversely, a dry-looking euro might leave us cold, even if the mechanisms are brilliant beneath the surface.

Take Scythe. My first encounters with it were shaped by its breathtaking artwork and deluxe components. The game looked like an epic saga waiting to unfold. Yet the actual mechanisms — a mix of engine-building and area control — didn’t ignite that same excitement. I admired it more than I enjoyed it. Without The Rise of Fenris expansion, I might never have revisited it enough to discover its deeper strategies.

On the flip side, Dominion suffered from the opposite problem. It looked plain and abstract compared to flashier titles, and its simplicity felt underwhelming. Only after exploring expansions and giving it more time did I come to see its elegance and influence. What seemed basic at first revealed itself as a beautifully streamlined design.

First impressions can be misleading. They often reflect surface elements more than long-term engagement. That’s why second chances can matter so much.

The Role of Familiarity

Another reason games grow on us is familiarity. Many designs ask players to learn not just the rules, but the rhythm of play. Until you internalize that rhythm, the experience can feel awkward or shallow. Once it “clicks,” the game opens up.

Everdell is a prime example. My early plays left me frustrated with card draw luck and unsure what the fuss was about. But after owning the game and playing more frequently, I began to appreciate the pacing of its seasons, the satisfaction of tableau synergies, and the cozy rhythm of its structure. What once felt random became flexible. The more I understood, the more I enjoyed.

Dune: Imperium followed a similar path. At first, its deck-building seemed limited, and I didn’t grasp how small decisions could cascade into victory. With repeated plays — and especially after adding the Rise of Ix expansion — the subtleties became clear. Familiarity turned frustration into tension, and tension into excitement.

This is the paradox of depth. The very qualities that make a game rich can also make it intimidating or opaque at first. It’s only through repeated exposure that we unlock its rewards.

Expansions as Catalysts

Expansions often play a crucial role in helping games grow on players. They can fix balance issues, add variety, or simply nudge you to revisit a title you’d otherwise ignore.

For me, Prosperity transformed Dominion, The Rise of Fenris revitalized Scythe, Oceania saved Wingspan, and Rise of Ix elevated Dune: Imperium. In each case, an expansion didn’t just add content — it reshaped my relationship with the game.

This isn’t to say expansions are always necessary. But they often serve as bridges, encouraging players to give a game another chance. And sometimes, all a design needs is a little more variety or a tweak to pacing for its strengths to shine.

Context Matters

Equally important is the context of play: who you play with, how many players, and even your own state of mind.

Paladins of the West Kingdom nearly lost me after a long, sluggish three-player game. The downtime and complexity made it feel like a chore. But when I tried it solo, everything changed. The AI system provided tension without the drag, and the game flowed beautifully. What felt like an overstuffed euro became one of the most satisfying solo experiences in my collection.

Similarly, Wingspan only became enjoyable once I realized it works best at lower player counts. At two or three players, the pace is smooth and the downtime minimal. At five, it’s a slog. Context turned the game from frustrating to relaxing.

The lesson here is simple: a game’s quality isn’t just in its design, but in how it intersects with the circumstances of play. A mismatch between game and group can kill enjoyment, while the right context can make the same design sing.

Shifting Tastes

Another factor is our own evolving tastes as players. What bores us today might captivate us tomorrow, once we’ve experienced more of the hobby.

When I first encountered Dominion, I wanted heavy strategy and immersive themes. Dominion felt too bare. Years later, after playing countless hybrids and complex designs, I began to appreciate Dominion’s purity. It wasn’t that the game changed — it was that I did.

The same applies to Scythe. Early on, I dismissed its mechanisms as dry. But as I grew more comfortable with engine-building euros, I started to see its elegance. My own growth as a player unlocked the game’s appeal.

Tastes evolve with exposure. Sometimes it takes trying a broad range of styles before you circle back and find joy in what once left you indifferent.

The Slow Burn Appeal

What unites all these experiences — Dominion, Scythe, Everdell, Dune: Imperium, Wingspan, and Paladins — is the slow burn. None dazzled me at first. Each asked for patience, persistence, or the right conditions. And each rewarded that patience with lasting enjoyment.

There’s something special about games that grow on you. Instant hits can be thrilling, but they sometimes fade quickly once the novelty wears off. Slow-burn games, by contrast, often stick. The process of learning them, of overcoming frustration and discovering depth, forges a stronger connection. They become part of your story as a player, tied to moments of discovery and growth.

Broader Reflections

These journeys also say something about the hobby as a whole. Board gaming isn’t just about finding “the best” game. It’s about exploration, patience, and openness to change. A single play is rarely enough to capture the full scope of a design.

It also highlights the importance of generosity — both to games and to ourselves. Not every title will click immediately, and that’s okay. Giving a game a second chance, or trying it under different circumstances, can uncover hidden joys. And if it still doesn’t work, that’s fine too. Part of the fun of the hobby is discovering what resonates with us personally.

Finally, these stories remind me that improvement is not just for players, but for games. Expansions, revised editions, and community-driven strategies all show how designs can evolve. A game that feels incomplete today may become a gem tomorrow with the right adjustments.

Final Thoughts

Looking back over these five games (and that crucial honorable mention), what stands out most is how board gaming is rarely about instant gratification. Sure, some titles dazzle us on the first play with clever twists or gorgeous production, but the ones that grow on us carve out a deeper, more lasting space in our collections and in our memories.

At first, I underestimated Dominion’s elegance, dismissed Scythe’s pacing, felt unlucky in Everdell, doubted Dune: Imperium’s limitations, found Wingspan too slow, and struggled with Paladins of the West Kingdom’s density. In each case, it would have been easy to stop there and move on. But board gaming, like any hobby rooted in creativity and interaction, rewards patience.

These experiences taught me a few enduring lessons:

• First impressions are only part of the story. A single session can’t always reveal a game’s true heart.

• Context matters. The right player count, expansions, or even mindset can transform a “meh” game into a favorite.

• Our tastes evolve. What feels dry today might feel brilliant tomorrow as we grow as players.

• The slow burn is often the most satisfying. Games that win us over gradually tend to stay with us the longest.

What ties all of these together is not just the mechanics or themes, but the personal journey. Each game marks a stage in how I’ve changed as a player: what I notice, what I value, and how much patience I’m willing to invest. That growth is part of the fun, part of the reason I keep coming back to this hobby.

So if you’ve ever walked away from a first play unimpressed, don’t be too quick to sell, trade, or shelve that box forever. Some games need time, some need context, and some just need you to change a little before they reveal their brilliance. And when they do, the reward is all the sweeter — because it feels like you earned it.