When I first heard about Hadrian’s Wall, I was intrigued but not entirely sure what to expect. My shelves were already filled with a healthy collection of roll-and-writes and flip-and-writes, games that range from breezy fifteen-minute fillers to puzzly think-pieces that take nearly an hour to resolve. I had enjoyed my fair share of clever designs, such as Cartographers, where you draw little maps and fill out regions to maximize points, and Three Sisters, where you manage a backyard garden while triggering chain reactions that can feel surprisingly rewarding. On Tour had scratched the itch for a simple, almost meditative route-building exercise that combined planning and luck in just the right proportions. But when Hadrian’s Wall arrived in 2021, it was clear that it was attempting something more ambitious than these lighthearted cousins.
It did not take long for word to spread that this was a meatier experience, a flip-and-write that did not simply hand you a few numbers or symbols to cross off but challenged you with a small engine-building puzzle every single turn. I had seen its rating rise steadily on hobbyist charts, and it eventually earned the reputation of being one of the heaviest games in the entire subgenre. That in itself was intriguing, because I had always been drawn to the idea of games that gave me a meaningful problem to solve rather than a trivial diversion. I like light games for what they are, but there is a certain satisfaction that comes from sinking into a title that demands a little more mental energy, something that makes me feel like I have accomplished something clever when I pull off a chain of moves that nets me a large score.
So I decided to give it a chance. I managed to find a ding-and-dent copy at a steep discount, which felt like a stroke of good fortune. The box corner was crushed but perfectly functional after a bit of tape, and soon I was setting up the dual sheets that define the game’s sprawling layout. Right away, I was struck by how much real estate these two pages occupied on the table. Most flip-and-writes can be played on a corner of a coffee table, but Hadrian’s Wall makes you feel like you are unfurling some kind of ancient imperial decree, as if you are the Roman governor surveying the lands you must protect.
The game casts you as a Roman general tasked with building and defending the eponymous wall, developing a settlement, training cohorts, and satisfying the demands of both the emperor and the populace. Each turn begins with a flip of cards that grant you resources and present end-game scoring opportunities. Then the real challenge begins: allocating a limited pool of workers and materials across dozens of tracks, buildings, and projects in an attempt to generate victory points while avoiding disastrous incursions from barbarian raiders.
From the very first round, I was impressed by how quickly the game ramps up its sense of momentum. In some engine-building games, you spend two or three turns merely planting seeds, slowly gathering resources before the payoff arrives. Here, combos trigger almost immediately. Assign a builder to work on fortifications, and suddenly you earn a citizen who can be used to unlock a production building, which in turn grants you more materials, which allow you to fill in another box, which might give you a soldier, and so on. By the end of a round, you feel as though you have just completed a puzzle, a small masterpiece of efficiency where every action led to another in a satisfying cascade.
This immediate sense of reward is what hooked me. There was never a dull turn where I simply marked one thing and passed play to the next person. Each round felt like an opportunity to construct an elaborate plan, trying to wring every last drop of efficiency from the resources at hand. It is the kind of game that makes you sit back after a turn and mentally replay your decisions, wondering if there might have been an even better chain you could have created if you had thought one step further ahead.
It is also a game with extraordinary variability. The decks of cards that drive resource distribution and provide scoring goals ensure that no two plays are exactly alike. Some games you will have plentiful builders but be short on soldiers, which forces you to find ways to generate defense through clever card play or alternative strategies. Other games will tempt you with lucrative scoring opportunities in the theater track or religious track, daring you to invest heavily in those areas at the expense of others. Because there are so many possible routes to victory, you are free to experiment, to try specializing in one or two areas in one game and spreading your efforts broadly in another.
In my first couple of plays, I took the generalist approach, attempting to make progress in almost every track just to see what each of them offered. My scores were modest, which is to be expected when you do not fully commit to any single strategy. But now that I have a better understanding of the interactions between systems, I am excited to try more focused approaches. What happens if I go all-in on building the wall and training cohorts, creating a military powerhouse at the expense of civic development? Can I ignore defense entirely and focus on cultural achievements, relying on just enough strength to avoid total disaster? Each playthrough becomes an opportunity to explore a different facet of the design.
One of the most impressive aspects of Hadrian’s Wall is how it manages to keep all of these moving parts organized without becoming unwieldy. The iconography is dense at first glance, and I will admit that my first game involved a fair amount of rulebook consultation. But once you grasp the logic behind the symbols, the flow becomes intuitive. Every track is clearly labeled, every reward is visually represented, and the layout of the sheets is cleverly designed to guide your eyes from one area to the next. The puzzle is complex but not chaotic, challenging but never unfair.
Of course, there is one small complaint I have, and it is a purely physical one rather than a flaw in the design. The font on the score sheets is tiny—so small that I found myself squinting, holding the page closer to my face, and contemplating whether I needed better lighting at the table. I understand the difficulty of fitting so much information on a pair of letter-sized sheets, but as my eyes tire more easily these days, I find myself wishing for a slightly more spacious layout. The idea of enlarging the sheets, laminating them, and using dry-erase markers has crossed my mind more than once. That would certainly be a level of dedication, but perhaps a worthwhile one if it means greater comfort while playing.
This small quibble aside, I find myself captivated by the design. It is not the kind of game I would necessarily bring out for every occasion. It demands a bit of quiet focus, and I suspect that in a group setting, table talk will be minimal as everyone is busy plotting their own chains of actions. Yet I do not consider that a drawback. There is room in the hobby for games that are social and full of laughter, just as there is room for more meditative games that encourage players to sink into their own thoughts and emerge with a sense of accomplishment. Hadrian’s Wall belongs firmly in the latter category, and it fills that niche beautifully.
What excites me most is the sense that there is still much to explore. Two games in, and I feel like I have barely scratched the surface of what is possible. The solo mode in particular beckons, promising a campaign that unfolds over multiple plays. I am curious to see whether I can improve my efficiency, tighten my play, and discover strategies that will push my scores higher. I know that the experience of playing with others will not be dramatically different—the interaction is limited to comparing final results—but there is still something satisfying about sharing the table, watching others pursue their own plans, and seeing how their choices compare to mine.
Hadrian’s Wall has reminded me that the flip-and-write genre is more versatile than many give it credit for. It can be light and breezy, sure, but it can also be dense and rewarding, capable of delivering a full-bodied gaming experience that rivals many traditional board games in depth. I came into this expecting just another clever puzzle, and I walked away with something that feels like a complete and deeply satisfying strategic challenge.
Games, Reptiles, and Family Days
While Hadrian’s Wall occupied my solo gaming brain and satisfied my appetite for crunchy puzzles, it was not long before the social side of gaming made its way back into my routine. Gaming, for me, is rarely just about the mechanics on the table. It is about the shared moments, the small stories that happen around the board, and the memories that last long after the pieces are packed away. Sometimes those moments are born out of games themselves, but sometimes they are born out of the circumstances surrounding the day, the conversations before and after play, and the little detours life takes us on.
That Sunday, when I first really dove into Hadrian’s Wall, it turned into something entirely different from what I initially had planned. My partner took our son to an Oakland A’s baseball game, giving my daughter and me a rare day to ourselves. I had imagined a quiet afternoon of gaming or perhaps catching up on some painting backlog, but I asked her what she wanted to do. She thought for a moment, then surprised me by announcing that she wanted to go to the reptile show at the state fairgrounds. This was not what I had envisioned, but the idea of spending time together doing something that mattered to her was too good to pass up.
The fairgrounds were bustling when we arrived, full of families, hobbyists, and collectors crowding around rows of terrariums and display cases. It felt like stepping into another hobbyist world, one with its own language and passion. We wandered past enclosures filled with snakes, lizards, and geckos, each creature more fascinating than the last. My daughter had been saving her allowance for weeks and proudly announced that she had enough to buy another gecko. That declaration filled me with equal parts pride and parental apprehension.
Sure enough, after much deliberation, she chose a juvenile crested gecko. It was tiny, delicate, and alert, climbing on the enclosure walls with curiosity. The vendor carefully packed the little reptile into a safe container for transport, and we headed home. There was, however, one small hitch—my daughter’s savings covered the gecko itself but not a second enclosure, and cohabitation between geckos can often go wrong. Apparently, putting two geckos together can lead to stress, fighting, and worse. I had never heard anyone compare it to divorcing rabbits before, but that colorful metaphor has now been permanently lodged in my brain.
And so, I became the reluctant financier of an additional tank, on the understanding that my daughter now owed me repayment through chores. Thus, Ollie joined our household, and we began the journey of caring for a new pet. Naming the gecko proved to be a delightful challenge. Since it was too young to sex, we decided to go with a gender-neutral name, settling on Ollie. In some ways, this mirrored the kind of choices we make in games—naming characters, choosing roles, deciding who they will become over the course of a campaign. Ollie, like a freshly unpainted miniature, was a blank slate full of potential.
Bringing Ollie home made me reflect on how hobbies and passions pass from one generation to the next. My daughter’s interest in reptiles is not something I cultivated, but I recognize in her the same enthusiasm I feel when I discover a new game or miniature range. There is a special joy in watching someone else fall in love with their own hobby, even if it is completely different from your own. It reminded me that gaming, too, is often a family affair.
Back at home, I managed to squeeze in a solo game or two of Hadrian’s Wall while Ollie acclimated to the new environment. The contrast between the quiet concentration of a solo puzzle and the excitement of the day was striking. Yet in both cases, there was that sense of nurturing something, whether it was a pet or a personal best score. There was also a sense of ownership—the idea that we were building something meaningful together, whether it was a fortified Roman outpost or a habitat for a juvenile gecko.
Gaming has always been a bridge for me, a way to connect different parts of life. When my daughter shows interest in a game, even if it is just to roll dice or place tokens, it feels like an invitation into my world. I do not expect her to dive into heavy euro-style games just yet, but we have shared lighter titles and party games that let her creativity shine. There is something special about watching her puzzle through a turn, seeing the gears turn in her head as she considers options, and then celebrating when a clever move pays off.
The day we brought Ollie home, we wrapped up our outing with a quick meal and then spent the evening together just talking about what we had seen. That, more than anything, was the real treasure of the day. It reminded me that hobbies—whether it is reptile keeping or board gaming—are about shared experiences. They are about the stories you tell later, the moments you relive.
In this way, games like Hadrian’s Wall become more than just mechanisms on paper. They become part of the fabric of daily life. They become the way we measure and mark time, the activity we remember doing on a specific Sunday, the thing we bring out to celebrate or to unwind. The sheets I filled in that night are still tucked away, and when I look at them, I can remember the whole day: the fairgrounds, the laughter, the decision to buy a gecko, and the quiet satisfaction of solving a challenging puzzle later that evening.
It is this blend of real life and tabletop moments that makes the hobby so enduring for me. When people ask why I spend so much time and energy on board games, I could point to the intellectual stimulation or the artistry of the components, but more often than not, it is about days like this—days where a game becomes an anchor point for memory.
Looking ahead, I imagine that Ollie will become a fixture in our household, much like my ever-growing collection of games. Each time we feed them, clean the tank, or watch them explore their habitat, it will be a little reminder of that Sunday and the choice my daughter made to spend our day together doing something she loved. And perhaps one day, just as she asked me to take her to the reptile show, she might ask me to teach her a heavier game, something with a bit of meat to it, where she can plan combos and outthink the puzzle just as I have been doing with Hadrian’s Wall.
Even now, there is something wonderful about the fact that she already has opinions about the games we play. She has her favorites, and she is not shy about expressing when she finds something boring or too complicated. This keeps me grounded and reminds me that games are at their best when they bring joy to the people playing them. It is easy to get caught up in the pursuit of the newest and the heaviest, always chasing after that next mental challenge, but sometimes the best game is the one that makes everyone at the table smile.
That Sunday taught me that the hobby can coexist with other passions, that it does not have to dominate every free moment to still be meaningful. It also reminded me that memories are not just made at the table but also in the moments leading up to and following play. Bringing home a gecko might not seem related to filling in boxes on a score sheet, but to me, they are forever linked.
As the day wound down and the house grew quiet, I thought about how strange and beautiful it is that a simple piece of cardboard, some wooden tokens, and a pair of score sheets could hold so much potential for joy. I also thought about how grateful I am that gaming is flexible enough to fit into a day like this one—sometimes center stage, sometimes just a quiet companion waiting patiently for the next chance to play.
Playful Rivalries and Storytelling at the Table
Not long after the day we brought Ollie home, my gaming sessions turned toward experiences that were much more social, more interactive, and at times downright combative in the most entertaining way. One of the highlights was trying out KUNE v LAKIA: A Chronicle of a Royal Lapine Divorce Foretold. It is not every day that you find a game with a premise so utterly specific and strange that it almost dares you not to play it. A card game where two anthropomorphic rabbit royals are attempting to one-up each other as they prepare to split their kingdom apart in a dramatic divorce? That premise alone was enough to get it on my table.
When I sat down to play, I chose to take on the role of Princess Lakia. There was something delightfully mischievous about plotting sabotage and political manipulation from the perspective of a disgruntled rabbit princess. My opponent took on the role of Kune, the soon-to-be-ex, and we immediately found ourselves immersed in a tug-of-war for influence. The game gives you a small hand of cards to work with, and every decision feels tight because you seldom have more than a few options at your disposal. Each card you play either secures loyalty from members of the court, advances your schemes, or directly interferes with your rival’s plans.
It is an interactive experience in the truest sense of the word. Every turn is a chance to look your opponent in the eye, play a card, and watch their expression shift as their carefully laid plans are thrown into disarray. There is a gleeful tension in knowing that your sabotage was perfectly timed, but there is also the sting of being on the receiving end of the same treatment. The game is not meant for its own sake—it is meant with purpose, with every move driving the story of this bitter but oddly charming divorce forward.
What struck me most about KUNE v LAKIA was how quickly it created a narrative. Within minutes, we were not just playing cards; we were inhabiting these roles. Lakia became more than just a name on a card—she was a wronged princess who was determined to come out of this messy split with her dignity intact and her position strengthened. Kune became the rival, the adversary who needed to be outmaneuvered. When I launched a plot that successfully turned an influential courtier to my side, it felt like a small victory not just in terms of points but in terms of the story.
The art helped a great deal in selling that narrative. The angry rabbit expressions, the sly smirks, the sense of haughty aristocracy rendered in lapine form—it all combined to make the game feel like a whimsical fable. And because it plays in a brisk fifteen to twenty minutes, there was no time for the game to overstay its welcome. We finished, laughed at the absurdity of what had just happened, and immediately debated what strategies we might try in a rematch.
It is rare for a game to be so simultaneously silly and so strategically engaging, but KUNE v LAKIA managed it. It reminded me of why I enjoy highly interactive two-player games in the first place. They are intimate, tense, and capable of telling stories in a way that multiplayer games sometimes struggle to achieve because of their wider focus. It is just you and your opponent, locked in a duel of wits, every decision carrying weight.
This led neatly into the next major gaming event of the month: continuing the campaign of Roll Player Adventures with my group. If KUNE v LAKIA was about rivalry, Roll Player Adventures was about shared narrative, about being on the same side and shaping a story together. Mission eight was on the agenda, and by this point, our party of adventurers felt like old friends. We had built them up over many sessions, made difficult choices on their behalf, and watched them grow in skill and personality.
Roll Player Adventures excels at making you feel like your decisions matter. The story unfolds linearly, yes, but within that linearity are moments of choice that feel impactful. Do we help this faction or betray them? Do we trust the stranger or turn them away? These decisions ripple forward, changing the way characters react to us in future scenarios, sometimes unlocking new paths, sometimes closing doors we did not even know were open. It is that sense of consequence that makes every mission feel weighty.
Mission eight threw a few twists our way, ones we were not expecting. There were moments of genuine surprise, the kind that make the table go quiet for a second as everyone processes what just happened. And then the conversation erupts—what should we do next? How will this affect the story? Are we making the right choice? This kind of engagement is exactly what I want out of a campaign game. It is not just about rolling dice and fighting monsters; it is about shaping a shared narrative, one decision at a time.
Playing through these moments with my group also reinforced how important it is to have the right mix of personalities at the table. We have players who approach everything with deadly seriousness, players who look for the funniest possible option, and players who crunch numbers to find the optimal path. The resulting blend makes for lively discussions and keeps the campaign feeling fresh. There is nothing quite like seeing your friend’s carefully thought-out plan derail because someone else decided to take a risk that was narratively satisfying but strategically questionable.
It was around this time that I received a thoughtful belated birthday gift from Mrs. Glenn, who is part of this group. She brought me a travel bag designed specifically for board games, along with a selection of component containers, trays, and card cases. This was the kind of gift that only a fellow gamer could fully appreciate—an acknowledgement that organizing and transporting games is half the battle when you are as deep into the hobby as I am. I felt genuinely touched, and in a way, it motivated me to bring something a little different to the table.
So I did something unusual for our group: I requested a game that was outside our usual wheelhouse. After packing it neatly into the new travel case, I brought out A game about WEE WHIMSICAL CREATURES and tried to identify them after someone made noises. Even the title is a mouthful, and it got a laugh just for its sheer descriptiveness.
The gameplay is as silly as the name suggests. One player, the clue giver, lays out five cards face-up. Each card has a unique, odd-looking creature illustrated on it. The clue giver secretly chooses one of the creatures and then makes the sound they think that creature would make. The rest of the players open their eyes and guess which creature was chosen. Points are awarded for correct guesses, and then the next person takes a turn as clue giver.
What makes the game shine is how absolutely ridiculous the table becomes once people start making noises. You might hear guttural growls, high-pitched squeaks, or sounds that defy any description whatsoever. The game is light, fast, and utterly charming, perfect as an icebreaker or a palate cleanser between heavier titles. My group, which usually spends hours poring over strategic decisions, was reduced to laughter as we tried to decipher which creature was supposed to sound like a wheezing teapot or a frog with a cold.
This game, short and silly as it was, reminded me that not every session has to be a grand narrative or a deeply strategic puzzle. Sometimes the best memories come from the games that encourage you to let go, be a little ridiculous, and share a laugh with the people around you. It was a perfect way to wrap up an evening of adventuring, bringing everyone back down to earth after the intensity of Roll Player Adventures.
By the end of that weekend, I felt like I had experienced the full spectrum of what board gaming can offer. I had played something sharp and mean in KUNE v LAKIA, something epic and immersive in Roll Player Adventures, and something lighthearted and silly in WEE WHIMSICAL CREATURES. Each of them scratched a different itch, reminded me why I love this hobby, and deepened my appreciation for the diversity of experiences available on the tabletop.
Reflections on a Hobby That Keeps Giving
When I look back over the past month of gaming, I am struck by just how much variety I have experienced. There is something almost poetic about how a hobby that seems, on the surface, to be so simple—sitting down at a table, moving pieces, rolling dice, flipping cards—can contain such depth and diversity. From the solo concentration of Hadrian’s Wall to the combative hilarity of KUNE v LAKIA, from the sprawling narrative of Roll Player Adventures to the carefree laughter of WEE WHIMSICAL CREATURES, the hobby has offered me four completely different windows into play, and each one has left me thinking in its own way.
Part of what makes this hobby so enduring is its ability to grow with you. My tastes have shifted over time. There was a period when I gravitated almost exclusively toward heavy euros, chasing the thrill of complex resource management and long-term planning. There was another period when I could not get enough of thematic dungeon crawlers and campaign games, reveling in the storytelling and character progression. Now I find myself somewhere in the middle, wanting a balance between the two. A night of crunchy strategy is deeply satisfying, but so is an evening spent making silly sounds to guess imaginary creatures.
This balance is not just about variety; it is about pace. Life is busy, and sometimes the mental bandwidth required for a two-hour thinky game is just not there. That is where lighter games and party-style fillers shine. They let you gather around the table, connect with friends or family, and create shared memories without the commitment of a marathon session. They also act as gateways—lighter games can introduce people to the hobby, ease them into its rhythms, and perhaps later lead them to explore heavier titles.
What I love about heavier games like Hadrian’s Wall is that they challenge me intellectually. They ask me to think several steps ahead, to optimize within a set of constraints, to weigh trade-offs carefully. They are satisfying in the way a good puzzle is satisfying—solving them feels like an accomplishment. I appreciate that the game wastes no time in getting to the good stuff, throwing combos at you from the very first round and asking you to figure out how to make everything work together efficiently. It scratches an itch that few other games manage to hit.
At the same time, I am glad that games like KUNE v LAKIA exist to keep me humble and remind me that not everything is about optimization. Sometimes the most memorable moments are the ones where you get completely blindsided by your opponent’s play, laugh at the audacity of it, and have to scramble to recover. There is a joy in that give-and-take, in the direct interaction that forces you to adapt. These games are less about perfect efficiency and more about reading the person across from you, which makes them as much social experiences as strategic ones.
Then there are narrative-driven games like Roll Player Adventures, which offer a different kind of richness. They pull you into their world and let you co-create the story through your decisions. Even though the plot is written and the outcomes are finite, it feels personal because you are the one steering the party through its dilemmas. The game’s design respects your investment, letting you see the consequences of your choices play out in future sessions. These kinds of games are special because they are not just a night’s entertainment; they are a journey you embark on over weeks or months, and by the time you reach the end, you feel like you have accomplished something together.
And then there are the games that simply remind you to laugh. WEE WHIMSICAL CREATURES will probably never be ranked among the great strategic masterpieces, but that is not its purpose. Its purpose is to be joyful, to turn a group of adults into giggling kids for a few minutes as they try to interpret each other’s bizarre sounds. These games act as palate cleansers, not just between heavier games but also between heavier weeks. They permit you to let go of whatever weight you are carrying and just be silly for a while.
Another thing that stands out to me as I reflect on all of this is how much the physical aspect of the hobby matters. The belated birthday gift I received—those component trays, the travel bag—might seem like accessories, but they are really facilitators of experience. They make it easier to bring games to the table, to organize them, and to share them with others. There is something almost ritualistic about unpacking a game, laying out its pieces, setting up the board, and inviting others to sit down and play. These rituals are part of what makes tabletop gaming different from digital gaming. They are tactile, grounded, physical.
Even solo play carries that tactile pleasure. There is something meditative about filling in a score sheet, moving cubes from one track to another, and watching your progress manifest physically. It is one of the reasons why, even though there are digital implementations of games like Hadrian’s Wall, I prefer to play them on paper. The act of writing, of seeing the sheet fill up with your own hand, is part of the satisfaction.
Of course, the hobby is not without its frustrations. I mentioned earlier the tiny font size on the Hadrian’s Wall sheets, and that remains a challenge. As my eyesight slowly rebels against me, I find myself wishing publishers would consider readability more carefully. Still, even this annoyance has a kind of charm to it—it reminds me that I am not just a passive consumer but an active participant, one who might end up photocopying or enlarging sheets to make them more usable.
The other challenge is, of course, finding time. Between work, family, and everything else life throws my way, carving out a few hours for a game night can be difficult. This is why solo games have become such an important part of my collection—they let me scratch the gaming itch even when no one else is available. But nothing quite compares to a good group session, the kind where you lose track of time and look up hours later, surprised at how late it has gotten.
Thinking about the future of my gaming life, I suspect I will continue to chase this balance. There will be more campaigns, more puzzles, more silly moments. There will be new games discovered, old favorites revisited, and perhaps even a few projects to paint miniatures or upgrade components. The hobby is endlessly deep, and every year brings new designs that push the boundaries of what a tabletop game can be.
Most importantly, there will be more memories. The gecko Ollie is now part of our family, and so is the memory of the day we brought them home. That day is forever linked in my mind with Hadrian’s Wall, with that feeling of satisfaction after playing through my first few games. Future sessions will be linked to future events—maybe a holiday gathering, maybe a rainy afternoon when we cannot go outside, maybe a quiet weekday evening after a long day at work. The games themselves become little time capsules, each one carrying not just the mechanics but also the context in which it was played.
This is why, when people ask why I am so enthusiastic about board games, I have so many answers. I love the art, the design, the intellectual challenge. I love the stories they tell and the laughter they inspire. But above all, I love that they are experiences you share—sometimes with others, sometimes with yourself, but always in a way that creates something lasting. They are not just distractions; they are memory-making machines.
As I sit here, looking at my shelf, I see more than just boxes. I see invitations. Each box is an invitation to puzzle, to laugh, to compete, to cooperate, to imagine. Each one is a chance to connect with someone—whether that is a friend, a family member, or just a version of myself who wants to spend an hour or two doing something meaningful.
And that is what keeps me coming back. Even after all these years in the hobby, even after hundreds of games played, I still feel a little thrill when I sit down at a freshly set table, ready to begin. There is always something new to discover, some new combo to trigger, some new story to tell. And whether I am building a Roman wall, sabotaging a rabbit ex, saving a fantasy kingdom, or just making silly noises to guess which creature is which, I know I am exactly where I want to be.
Conclusion
Looking back over this journey through games, stories, and shared moments, I am reminded that tabletop gaming is far more than just a pastime. It is a way of thinking, a way of connecting, and even a way of marking time. Hadrian’s Wall challenged me to optimize and experiment, KUNE v LAKIA reminded me to laugh in the middle of conflict, Roll Player Adventures let me step into a story and shape its path, and WEE WHIMSICAL CREATURES encouraged unfiltered silliness that brought smiles to everyone at the table. Each game, whether solo or social, offered a unique kind of fulfillment and added something meaningful to my life.
The beauty of this hobby is that it allows space for all of these experiences to coexist. Some days call for quiet concentration, others for narrative immersion, and others still for lighthearted noise and chaos. Each game becomes a tool for creating the right mood, the right interaction, the right memory. The shelf may be full of cardboard and plastic, but what it really contains is potential—potential for laughter, for tension, for surprise, and for connection.
Even the moments outside the games have meaning. A trip to a reptile show, the arrival of Ollie the gecko, a thoughtful birthday gift, and an afternoon spent teaching friends a strange new party game all form part of a larger story about the role this hobby plays in my life. The games are the medium, but the memories are the message.
And so, I find myself looking forward to what comes next. There are still more combos to discover, more campaigns to complete, more geckos to feed, and more friends to gather around the table. The wall is never fully built, the story is never fully told, and that is exactly how it should be. Each new session is an opportunity to add another brick, another chapter, another laugh.
In the end, what I have discovered is that this hobby is not just about playing games—it is about living them. Each session becomes a snapshot of where I was, who I was with, and how I was feeling at that moment. Long after the scores are tallied and the pieces are packed away, those moments remain. They are what keep me coming back, what keep me curious, and what keep me excited to sit down at the table again and again.