Cube design is one of the most fascinating ways to engage with a trading card game because it allows players to curate a personal collection that represents not only powerful and iconic cards, but also mechanics and strategies that they find rewarding. With every new set released, cube enthusiasts must evaluate which cards merit inclusion and which do not, often weighing raw power against synergy, theme, and play experience. When a set like March of the Machine arrives, the conversation becomes even more intriguing because it is not just another release filled with incremental mechanics, but a climactic event in the storyline of the game itself, bringing both mechanical innovation and narrative resolution. The Phyrexian invasion spreading across planes offered new design opportunities: transform cards, incubator tokens, backup mechanics, and renewed versions of the praetors all found their way into the set. For a cube curator, this meant examining not only whether the new mechanics were individually strong, but also whether they would interact meaningfully with the rest of the environment. It is not enough for a card to be good on its own; it must also play a role in creating the kinds of games the cube owner and their group find memorable.
The inclusion of new cards with the backup mechanic demonstrates the depth of this evaluation. Backup is a fascinating twist on creature design because it allows temporary sharing of abilities across the battlefield. In cube, where versatility is prized and players love finding new interactions, this mechanic offers opportunities for synergy. A five-drop creature that can pass lifelink or recursion abilities onto a smaller attacker creates dynamic gameplay choices. Do you enhance an existing threat or do you target the new entrant itself? That decision point adds tension, and the fact that backup interacts with blink effects or recursion gives cube players fertile ground for exploration. Designers who enjoy combat tricks, value engines, or layering synergies will likely see backup creatures as worthy inclusions. On the other hand, minimalistic cube designers may view them as too conditional, preferring more straightforward powerhouses. This tension illustrates how cube is both a reflection of personal taste and an evolving metagame shaped by new mechanics.
Transforming praetors from the set posed an even larger question. Elesh Norn, Sheoldred, and Vorinclex each came with two stages: their creature side and a saga side that unlocks after specific conditions are met. The sagas are splashy, game-defining effects, but they come at the cost of tempo and board presence. For cube, this introduces risk-reward evaluation. Do you include a powerful mythic that might dominate if it flips, or do you prioritize consistency with cards that perform more reliably? The answer varies across cube environments. A cube seeking to showcase big, dramatic plays may embrace praetors enthusiastically, while a cube tuned for competitive balance might hesitate, concerned that these cards create polarized outcomes where one player snowballs into inevitability. Nonetheless, their presence in March of the Machine ensured that cube discussions were lively, as designers debated whether spectacle should outweigh balance.
The set also pushed token and incubator strategies into the spotlight. Incubator tokens are peculiar in that they enter as artifacts holding potential power but require additional mana to awaken. This delay creates intriguing tension: should you spend your resources now for future payoffs, or should you invest elsewhere? In cube, this mechanic resonates particularly well with archetypes that generate value over time, such as sacrifice strategies or artifact synergies. The flying shark that spawns incubators when casting noncreature spells exemplifies this design philosophy. It is not just a body in the air; it is an engine for generating incremental advantage. Cube curators who favor decks that grind out resources will find such designs appealing. Yet the mechanic also carries risks: incubator tokens can be slow, and in high-powered cubes, slowness can be punished. Thus, evaluating incubators meant asking whether one’s cube environment supported slower, value-driven gameplay or whether it demanded immediate impact cards.
Taken together, March of the Machine showcased how a climactic set can dramatically reshape cube building conversations. It introduced a suite of mechanics that reward experimentation, provided dramatic reimaginings of iconic characters, and created debates about balance versus spectacle. For cube builders, the challenge was not simply to identify the strongest cards, but to ask whether those cards would create the kinds of games they want their cube to deliver. The joy of cube lies in this act of curation, where personal philosophy meets evolving design. With each new expansion, curators refine their environments, shaping experiences that echo their own vision of the game. March of the Machine reminded the cube community that cube design is not static, but a living expression of engagement with the ever-growing library of cards.
The narrative weight of March of the Machine was immense. It represented the culmination of years of Phyrexian plotting, with planeswalkers, heroes, and entire worlds facing assimilation. Characters as iconic as Elesh Norn became focal points of climactic battles, and the outcome reshaped the game’s lore. While storyline alone does not determine cube inclusions, it does shape how players emotionally connect to the cards. A cube filled with memorable characters feels different from one filled purely with efficient creatures and removal spells. The drama of planeswalkers falling to completion, of the multiverse uniting to resist, and of entire planes transformed gave the set a gravitas that resonated even in casual cube games. When a player slams Sheoldred onto the battlefield, they are not just playing a creature; they are invoking one of the great villains of the saga. That thematic resonance matters, even for players who claim to value only mechanics.
The Aftermath set, though small, illustrated this principle further. It was designed to close the narrative loop, showing the consequences of the Phyrexian war. For cube curators, Aftermath was less mechanically impactful, but it still offered a lens through which to view the broader story. Including cards from Aftermath allows a cube to act as a time capsule of the game’s lore, preserving not only the most efficient spells but also the emotional beats of the storyline. While competitive cube builders may dismiss this consideration, many casual and thematic cube designers embrace it wholeheartedly. They want their draft to tell a story, where battles mirror the conflicts of the multiverse. In that sense, Aftermath serves as a reminder that cube is not just about optimization; it is also about experience, memory, and narrative immersion.
Lore-driven design also interacts with mechanics. The completion of planeswalkers, for example, introduced powerful cards with dark flavor. For cube players, this added thematic drama to gameplay decisions. When you draft a card representing a corrupted hero, you are reminded of the storyline’s stakes. The tension between power and corruption in lore translates to gameplay choices: do you embrace the dark power of a completed planeswalker, even if it means your deck bends around its needs? Such questions elevate cube from a mathematical exercise to a roleplaying experience. This blending of narrative and mechanics is particularly effective in cubes that deliberately showcase iconic characters across eras. March of the Machine and Aftermath provided ample fuel for such storytelling ambitions.
The Evolution of Cube Design and the Impact of New Expansions
Cube design has always been one of the most creative and personal ways for players to interact with the card pool of a trading card game. Unlike constructed formats where decklists are built according to strict legality or limited formats where players are bound to the cards of a given set, cube liberates the designer to create their own environment, essentially becoming both curator and storyteller. In this sense, every cube is a personal statement, and the process of selecting which cards enter and which stay out is deeply tied to the experiences the designer wishes to create. When a new expansion releases, particularly one as climactic as March of the Machine, cube designers face a set of questions that go beyond raw power evaluation. They must consider whether new mechanics enrich the kind of gameplay they want, whether the set’s themes harmonize with their cube’s identity, and whether individual cards will produce memorable interactions. March of the Machine brought both mechanical innovation and narrative resolution, introducing backup, incubator tokens, and transforming praetors, each of which presented its own challenges and opportunities. Cube designers evaluating this set had to balance spectacle with consistency, asking whether dramatic but swingy cards fit into their environment or whether they should continue focusing on reliability.
One of the most compelling additions was the introduction of the backup mechanic. Backup creatures, such as Boon-Bringer Valkyrie or Scalesoul Scalelord, provided immediate board presence while also offering modular flexibility. The choice of whether to give their abilities to another creature or to themselves created tactical tension. In cube, where every decision carries amplified consequences, this kind of flexibility can significantly enhance the drafting and gameplay experience. A player might draft backup creatures with blink synergies in mind, knowing that re-triggering backup can multiply their impact. On the other hand, in more streamlined cubes that value direct efficiency over conditional synergies, backup creatures may appear too situational. The mechanic’s appeal lies precisely in this variability: it rewards designers who enjoy giving players room to discover hidden lines of play. For many, backup embodied what cube is about: flexibility, synergy, and the thrill of unexpected interactions.
Transforming praetors such as Elesh Norn, Sheoldred, and Vorinclex created even more complex decisions. Their creature forms were already strong, offering respectable stats and immediate effects. However, the possibility of transforming them into sagas promised overwhelming advantage, though only if certain conditions were met. In cube, these dualities posed a unique question: should one value the reliability of the front side or the potential game-breaking power of the back side? Elesh Norn, for example, punished small creatures while threatening to create a saga that flooded the board with incubators, boosted combat strength, and then wiped away non-Phyrexian permanents. This kind of card could singlehandedly decide games, which for some cube curators represented exciting drama, while for others it threatened balance. A cube filled with such cards could create a swingy environment where a single transformation snowballed into inevitability. The debate around praetors reflected a central tension in cube philosophy: should a cube strive for balance and fair play, or should it embrace moments of spectacle and high drama?
Incubator tokens introduced another axis of strategic evaluation. These artifact tokens entered with +1/+1 counters but required a mana investment to transform into creatures. Their design slowed down value generation, rewarding players willing to plan ahead. For cube, this mechanic intersected with archetypes that thrive on incremental advantage, such as sacrifice decks, artifact synergies, or slower midrange strategies. A card like Chrome Host Seedshark, which generated incubators whenever a noncreature spell was cast, became a potential engine of advantage in longer games. Yet incubators also carried risk, since they demanded additional mana to unlock their potential. In faster cube environments, this delay could prove costly. Evaluating incubators required cube designers to assess the pace of their format: would games allow for gradual advantage building, or would the tempo of play render incubators too slow? This dynamic highlighted one of cube’s most enjoyable challenges: the need to evaluate cards not in isolation, but in the context of an environment the designer themselves has shaped.
The presence of other transforming legends, such as Rona or Ayara, continued this theme of scalability. These cards began modestly but offered the potential for greater power with the right investment of mana or resources. Rona’s ability to loot already made her a decent two-drop, but her ability to transform into a trampling threat rewarded decks capable of going long. Ayara, on the other hand, let players sacrifice creatures and artifacts for incremental value, eventually flipping into a version that reanimated those sacrificed cards. These designs underscored the importance of resource management, asking drafters to weigh immediate payoff against long-term planning. For cube curators, such cards often served as archetype anchors, providing incentives for players to draft sacrifice, recursion, or legendary-themed decks. They exemplified the kind of depth cube thrives on: cards that not only stand alone but also suggest entire drafting strategies.
March of the Machine’s mechanical diversity also carried implications for archetype balance. Including incubators, backup, and transforming legends enriched certain archetypes, but cube designers had to ensure that these additions did not overshadow others. A cube too heavily tilted toward slow, synergy-driven mechanics risks marginalizing aggressive strategies. Conversely, excluding them might stifle innovation. Striking the right balance required careful playtesting and reflection. Designers had to ask: does the inclusion of these cards open up new archetypes without closing off existing ones? Do they contribute to replayability by offering drafters new build-around opportunities? Or do they risk creating repetitive gameplay dominated by a few overpowered effects? The answers varied by cube, but the questions themselves illustrate how a set like March of the Machine forces curators to reconsider fundamental design principles.
The set’s appeal also lay in its narrative resonance. Even cube players who claimed to ignore storylines could not help but be influenced by the weight of March of the Machine. When a player drafts Sheoldred, they are not merely drafting a powerful black creature; they are invoking one of the most feared villains of the multiverse. When Elesh Norn transforms, it echoes the climactic stakes of the Phyrexian war. These associations infuse games with drama, even if the cube was not designed to be thematic. Storylines become part of the shared language of the table, shaping how players perceive the cards and the experience of the draft. This intangible quality, though difficult to quantify, is one reason why sets with strong narrative climaxes tend to resonate deeply with cube curators. The mechanical and the emotional become intertwined, producing games that feel weighty, memorable, and larger than life.
In sum, the arrival of March of the Machine illustrated how new expansions can reshape the philosophy of cube design. Backup, incubators, transforming praetors, and scaling legends each offered unique forms of interaction that cube curators had to evaluate not only in terms of raw power but also in terms of environment, synergy, and narrative impact. For some, these cards represented must-have additions that promised to create exciting draft decisions and dramatic gameplay. For others, they risked upsetting balance, slowing games, or creating swingy outcomes. The debates they sparked reminded the community that cube is not a static entity but a living art form, constantly evolving with each new release. Whether one embraced or rejected these mechanics, their arrival forced curators to reflect on what they wanted their cube to be, ensuring that the process of cube design remained as dynamic and creative as the game itself.
When discussing the impact of March of the Machine on cube design, one cannot ignore the overarching storyline that gave this set its gravity. The Phyrexian war was not merely another narrative arc; it was the culmination of years of buildup, the kind of climactic event that reshaped the lore of the entire game. Planes were invaded, iconic heroes were compleated, and for a time, it seemed that the multiverse itself was on the brink of annihilation. Even though cube design is generally not dictated by story relevance, the emotional weight of such events inevitably trickles into how players experience and perceive the cards. A cube is not just a collection of mechanics; it is also a space where the imagination of players intersects with the identity of the characters and the history of the multiverse. Drafting a cube that includes Elesh Norn or Sheoldred is not just a tactical decision; it is a re-enactment of a battle between legendary figures, a reminder of high-stakes conflict, and an opportunity for players to immerse themselves in the drama of the game’s lore. This infusion of narrative into gameplay elevates cube beyond strategy and efficiency, transforming it into a form of storytelling where every draft and every match feels like a continuation of the multiverse’s saga.
The release of Aftermath reinforced this sense of narrative continuity. As a small supplemental set, it did not introduce sweeping mechanical changes, but its purpose was clear: to show the consequences of the war and the state of the multiverse after victory over the Phyrexians. From a cube perspective, Aftermath did not radically shift card evaluations, yet its symbolic importance cannot be overstated. Including cards from this set in a cube meant capturing not only mechanical tools but also the sense of resolution and transition that the storyline embodied. While Aftermath did not overflow with cube staples, it reminded curators that cube can serve as a time capsule, preserving not only the most efficient and powerful cards but also the turning points of the game’s narrative. A cube that includes cards representing aftermath and recovery tells a different story than one focused solely on climactic battles. It becomes a chronicle of the multiverse’s trials and triumphs, giving players a broader lens through which to view their games.
Beyond specific sets, the storyline influence underscores a larger truth: cube is an inherently narrative format, even when the curator does not intend it to be. Every card carries with it not only mechanical text but also historical and emotional context. When a player drafts a compleated planeswalker, they are reminded of that character’s fall from grace, and the gameplay becomes richer for it. When someone faces down a praetor, they are not merely calculating numbers on the battlefield but imagining themselves locked in combat against one of the game’s great villains. These layers of meaning affect how players respond emotionally to victories and losses. A triumph over Sheoldred feels different than a triumph over a nameless efficient creature, even if the game state was mechanically identical. Cube thrives on this blend of mechanics and narrative, delivering not just challenges but experiences imbued with memory and resonance.
The significance of narrative influence also lies in how it shapes archetype perception. Archetypes such as sacrifice, recursion, or artifact synergies are not only mechanically distinct but also narratively colored by the characters associated with them. Including Ayara in a cube does not just give players a sacrifice outlet; it gives them a connection to a queen who thrives on consuming her subjects for power. Including Vorinclex does not just provide ramp synergy; it reinforces the theme of relentless, brutal growth tied to a Phyrexian predator. These narrative anchors enrich the drafting experience, giving players thematic cues that guide their deckbuilding choices. They may consciously or unconsciously lean toward decks that fit the storylines represented by their picks, creating drafts that feel like miniature narratives of their own. This blending of mechanical archetypes with narrative identity is one of the subtle but powerful ways in which storyline relevance seeps into cube philosophy.
The Storyline Influence and Its Relevance to Cube Philosophy
The story behind March of the Machine carried enormous weight for players, not just because of its role as the climax to years of buildup but also because it introduced irreversible events that altered the identity of the multiverse. The Phyrexians, after years of scheming, had reached their zenith of power, launching a full-scale invasion that threatened every plane. For players invested in the lore, this was not a minor backdrop but a defining conflict that shaped how they interpreted the cards themselves. When you include cards from this set in a cube, you are not merely including mechanics—you are embedding fragments of that story, pieces of an epic that players bring with them to the table. Elesh Norn’s rise and fall, Sheoldred’s dark menace, and Vorinclex’s rampaging hunger all carried with them emotional associations that gave cube games a narrative layer even when no one was explicitly talking about the storyline. For many cube players, drafting a card linked to this saga meant reliving part of that battle, and it colored the way they viewed the plays unfolding before them.
Aftermath, the small follow-up set, offered a quieter but equally important piece of this puzzle. Its role was not to provide more climactic battles but to show what happens when the dust settles after such a cataclysmic event. The multiverse had survived, but not without scars, and the cards of Aftermath reflected this theme of recovery, rebuilding, and transition. From a cube perspective, the set did not offer a wealth of must-have inclusions, but its symbolism mattered. Including Aftermath cards meant recognizing that cube is not only about the apex moments of combat but also about the quieter phases of history. Just as a cube can celebrate iconic battles, it can also preserve the feeling of aftermath and reflection. This duality mirrors real storytelling, where triumph and despair are followed by attempts to rebuild, and it allows cube drafters to experience both the height of conflict and the calm that follows. A cube enriched by such inclusions becomes more than a puzzle of optimization; it becomes a microcosm of the game’s evolving mythos.
Storyline influence in cube also manifests in how players perceive archetypes. Archetypes are, in essence, mechanical packages, but they are rarely experienced in a vacuum. The sacrifice archetype, for instance, takes on additional meaning when represented by characters like Ayara, who rules through the constant consumption of her subjects. Ramp archetypes feel different when they revolve around Vorinclex, embodying the relentless spread of Phyrexian corruption. Control strategies gain thematic weight when they employ compleated planeswalkers, symbols of power turned to darkness. Even aggressive archetypes can draw narrative depth from characters like the fiery Chandra, whose story arc emphasizes resilience and rebellion. By choosing to include cards that align mechanics with characters, cube curators inadvertently weave story into draft strategy, giving drafters the sense that they are not only assembling decks but also aligning with factions, philosophies, or heroes from the multiverse.
This blending of narrative and mechanics reveals why cube remains such a deeply personal and immersive format. A cube is a living archive of a player’s preferences, and those preferences often include attachment to particular storylines, characters, or themes. Some cube curators lean heavily into this narrative angle, deliberately choosing cards that embody climactic conflicts or important turning points in lore. Others might claim to ignore story, focusing solely on efficiency, but even then the story seeps in, because the players who sit down to draft cannot help but bring their own knowledge of the multiverse with them. When they see Elesh Norn hit the table, they remember her grand schemes and eventual downfall. When they face Sheoldred, they recall her sinister manipulations. These associations affect the emotional weight of gameplay, making victories feel more triumphant and losses more meaningful.
March of the Machine’s storyline climax also reminded cube designers of the role atmosphere plays in their environments. While balance, archetypes, and gameplay depth are always essential considerations, the atmosphere created by the cards is equally important. A cube that incorporates major storyline moments feels like a stage where epic battles are reenacted. Players walk away not only talking about their strategic decisions but also retelling the stories of what happened in their games: the praetor that flipped into a devastating saga, the planeswalker who turned the tide, the scrappy flyer that survived against all odds. These stories, though emerging from gameplay, are amplified by the context of the lore. Cube thrives on these emergent narratives, and March of the Machine, with its heavy thematic resonance, was a perfect source of material for curators who wanted to capture that atmosphere.
It is also worth noting that storyline influence in cube is not limited to climactic sets. Smaller or subtler moments in lore also find their way into cubes, shaping the texture of the environment in less obvious but equally powerful ways. Aftermath is a perfect example of this, representing transition rather than climax. In a cube, including cards from Aftermath can serve as a reminder that not all games are about overwhelming power or decisive dominance. Sometimes they are about survival, resilience, and adaptation, themes that resonate strongly with players who appreciate nuance in both gameplay and story. By giving space to cards that embody aftermath rather than conflict, cube curators expand the emotional range of their environments, allowing for a richer variety of experiences across drafts and games.
In the end, the relevance of storyline to cube philosophy lies in how it shapes the overall experience. Cube is never just about the raw efficiency of cards; it is about the intersection of mechanics, memory, and imagination. March of the Machine demonstrated how a climactic storyline could elevate even the most mechanics-driven environment, infusing it with drama and resonance. Aftermath provided the contrasting tone of resolution and rebuilding, reminding curators that cube can also reflect quieter, subtler parts of the game’s history. Together, they illustrate how narrative and gameplay intertwine, creating experiences that feel larger than the sum of their parts. For cube curators and players alike, this is one of the great joys of the format: every draft and every match becomes not only a contest of strategy but also a fragment of an ongoing story, one in which the characters and conflicts of the multiverse come alive again and again across the table.
Mechanical Innovations and Their Strategic Consequences in Cube
March of the Machine distinguished itself not only with its narrative climax but also through its remarkable mechanical innovations, which carried profound implications for cube design. The most striking of these was the introduction of Battle cards, a brand-new permanent type that blended combat, reward, and strategic tension into one package. Battles, specifically the Siege subtype, asked players to rethink how they approached board development and offensive pressure. Instead of directing all aggression toward opponents, they could now choose to attack battles to gain transformative advantages, often flipping into powerful spells or permanents that tilted the game in their favor. In a cube environment, the introduction of battles posed immediate questions: which ones were strong enough to merit inclusion, how would they shift archetype priorities, and would players embrace the idea of attacking a non-player objective in the heat of a draft game? The best battles offered rewards so game-altering that they became central picks, reshaping how drafters evaluated removal, aggression, and tempo. Even those who were initially skeptical quickly realized that battles brought a new axis of decision-making that cube had not previously explored, adding richness to both draft strategy and in-game sequencing.
The compleated planeswalkers of this set also reinforced the idea that mechanics could embody story while simultaneously challenging established norms. Seeing iconic figures like Ajani, Jace, or Nissa turned into Phyrexian horrors was shocking, but it also brought mechanical twists that cube curators had to evaluate carefully. These planeswalkers often carried warped versions of their former abilities, reflecting their corruption while also maintaining gameplay utility. In cube, this meant they offered unusual angles of play compared to their earlier iterations, and their inclusion posed interesting contrasts for drafters. For example, a player might draft a corrupted version of Jace that leans into mill and attrition, whereas another cube might prefer his more traditional control-oriented incarnation. The existence of multiple variants of the same character allowed curators to fine-tune which aspects of that character’s design philosophy best suited their environment, creating a layered drafting experience. Beyond that, the thematic consistency of corruption and transformation added narrative weight to games, reinforcing how mechanics and story continually fed into one another.
March of the Machine also introduced a suite of cards that blurred the line between creatures and spells in ways that were highly cube-relevant. Modal cards, especially those offering immediate value and long-term board presence, gave drafters tools that were difficult to overrate. A creature that could act as removal or ramp, depending on circumstances, provided flexibility that elevated archetype stability. In cube, where efficiency and adaptability are prized, these designs felt tailor-made. They enabled players to remain open in early drafts while rewarding them for leaning into particular strategies later. They also ensured that gameplay remained dynamic, with fewer dead draws and more opportunities to pivot midgame. Such flexibility is often what separates strong cube cards from filler, and March of the Machine delivered several that immediately found homes in environments ranging from highly powered cubes to more thematic, narrative-driven designs.
Equally significant was the set’s approach to legendary creatures and their role in archetype definition. March of the Machine leaned heavily on team-ups, pairing iconic figures from across the multiverse into singular designs that encapsulated both mechanical synergy and flavorful storytelling. From a cube perspective, these cards were goldmines of archetype reinforcement. A team-up legend might offer a sacrifice outlet tied to token generation, simultaneously supporting two archetypes and giving drafters a clear signal about how to shape their decks. These designs encouraged multi-archetype synergies, breaking down rigid walls and allowing decks to evolve organically as drafts progressed. Moreover, they embodied the sense of unity that defined the set’s story, making them both mechanically useful and thematically satisfying. For cube curators, the challenge lay in balancing their power level with other cards, ensuring that they enhanced archetypes without overshadowing existing options. When integrated thoughtfully, they became engines of creativity, prompting players to experiment with novel combinations and strategies.
The consequences of these mechanical innovations extended beyond individual cards, influencing the overall pacing and atmosphere of cube games. Battles, completed planeswalkers, and versatile team-up legends all contributed to games that felt more explosive, more dynamic, and often more unpredictable. Drafting became an exercise in weighing not only curve and efficiency but also synergy and payoff potential in entirely new contexts. Should a drafter lean into battles, risking that their deck might struggle to protect them, or should they prioritize more stable, proven mechanics? Should they choose a corrupted planeswalker to explore an unusual archetype angle, or stay with more conventional powerhouses? These decisions deepened the draft experience, making it less about rote choices and more about envisioning how the deck would function across multiple axes. For players, this heightened uncertainty made matches feel alive, as though every game could take an unexpected turn if a battle flipped or a legendary team-up entered play at the right moment.
Strategically, these innovations also reshaped how cube curators thought about archetype balance. Battles, in particular, demanded that removal be reassessed. Suddenly, it was not enough to have tools that killed creatures or countered spells; cubes needed to ensure that players had meaningful ways to interact with battles as well. This shifted evaluation of burn spells, evasive creatures, and aggressive lines of play, making archetypes like red aggro or white weenie even more attractive because of their ability to pressure battles efficiently. Meanwhile, control decks had to adapt, finding ways to defend battles they cast or punish opponents who overcommitted to attacking them. These ripple effects extended to every corner of cube design, ensuring that battles were not just new inclusions but central features that shaped environment-wide dynamics. Completed planeswalkers similarly forced archetypes to stretch in new directions, offering payoffs for unusual synergies while presenting threats that required specific answers. The strategic web of cube grew denser, and with it, the satisfaction of drafting and playing deepened.
The Aftermath set, though small, illustrated this principle further. It was designed to close the narrative loop, showing the consequences of the Phyrexian war. For cube curators, Aftermath was less mechanically impactful, but it still offered a lens through which to view the broader story. Including cards from Aftermath allows a cube to act as a time capsule of the game’s lore, preserving not only the most efficient spells but also the emotional beats of the storyline. While competitive cube builders may dismiss this consideration, many casual and thematic cube designers embrace it wholeheartedly. They want their draft to tell a story, where battles mirror the conflicts of the multiverse. In that sense, Aftermath serves as a reminder that cube is not just about optimization; it is also about experience, memory, and narrative immersion.
In retrospect, March of the Machine demonstrated how mechanical innovations could alter cube philosophy in ways both immediate and lasting. It was not merely that the set introduced powerful cards—Magic has always done that—but that it changed the assumptions of what cards could ask players to do. Attacking battles instead of players, drafting team-up legends that bridged archetypes, and evaluating corrupted planeswalkers against their former selves all pushed players and curators alike into new territory. For cube, this was invaluable, since the format thrives on variety and reinvention. These innovations ensured that cubes incorporating March of the Machine would feel fresh, distinct, and reflective of the broader evolution of Magic itself. They also underscored the delicate balance cube curators must strike between novelty and stability, power and playability, mechanics and narrative. By embracing these challenges, cube designers expanded the horizons of their environments, creating drafts and games that were not only strategically complex but also profoundly memorable.
Conclusion
The exploration of March of the Machine, its aftermath, and the subsequent influence on cube philosophy reveals how a single set can ripple outward far beyond its immediate release. Cube, by its very nature, is a format of curation, a deliberate act of selecting cards not only for their efficiency but also for the stories they tell and the experiences they foster. March of the Machine demonstrated how climactic narrative, bold mechanics, and innovative card design converge to leave a permanent imprint on this beloved format. The praetors, battles, compleated planeswalkers, and legendary team-ups were not just additions to the pool—they were invitations for cube designers to reimagine how players draft, strategize, and engage with the game. The inclusion of Aftermath reminded us that cube is not only about peak moments of conflict but also about transition, consequence, and recovery, capturing the rhythm of storytelling within gameplay itself.
From a mechanical perspective, the set’s innovations expanded what cube could offer, encouraging players to attack in new directions, think about archetypes with greater flexibility, and experience games with heightened unpredictability. These were not temporary gimmicks but long-term evolutions in how Magic itself could function, and cubes that embraced them reflected this broader growth. Battles brought new axes of interaction, while versatile creatures and modal spells strengthened archetypes, ensuring that every draft felt alive with possibility. More importantly, these innovations underscored that cube thrives when mechanics push boundaries without losing sight of balance and clarity. In this sense, March of the Machine acted as both a challenge and an opportunity, reminding cube curators that their task is not static but evolving, just like the multiverse itself.
The narrative dimension added yet another layer of depth. Drafting Elesh Norn or Sheoldred was not just a tactical choice but an act of reliving the Phyrexian war. Playing with team-up legends symbolized the unity of planes against overwhelming odds. Even the quiet cards of Aftermath carried the weight of recovery, making players feel that their games were not isolated puzzles but pieces of a grander chronicle. This interplay between mechanics and narrative is where cube reaches its fullest potential: as both a strategic arena and a stage for storytelling. It reminds us that players are not only competitors but also participants in a living mythos that stretches across decades of design.
Ultimately, the significance of March of the Machine and its supplemental sets lies in how they highlighted cube’s dual identity as both a laboratory of mechanics and a theater of imagination. Curators who embraced these cards discovered not only fresh tools for gameplay but also richer experiences for their players, where every draft and every match could feel like a story unfolding. The secret of cube, and the reason it continues to grow in popularity, is that it allows each group to decide what matters most—power, narrative, nostalgia, experimentation—and weave those priorities into an environment uniquely their own. March of the Machine gave cube designers a wealth of material to work with, ensuring that their environments could continue evolving in ways that excite, challenge, and inspire.
In this way, the cube becomes more than a collection of cards. It becomes a living archive, a reflection of Magic’s past, present, and future, and a space where players can continually rediscover why they fell in love with the game. The battles may change, the praetors may rise and fall, and new mechanics may emerge, but the essence of cube remains constant: it is where the heart of the game beats strongest, powered by both innovation and memory. March of the Machine did not merely add cards to the pool—it deepened the philosophy of what cube could be, leaving a lasting legacy that will resonate for years to come.