For more than two decades I have kept a record of every board game I have played. What started as a simple log—title, date, players, winner—has turned into a deeply personal archive. Over time, this practice became less about the raw data and more about how one defines the very words at the center of the record. What exactly is a “play”? Who qualifies as a “player”? When is there a “winner”? And most importantly, what even counts as a “board game”? These may seem like trivial questions at first glance, but when you spend years carefully documenting your hobby, edge cases inevitably creep in, forcing you to draw lines in the sand.
The act of logging plays is straightforward when everything fits neatly into established patterns. A game is played at a table, pieces are moved, someone wins, someone loses, and a date marks the occasion. But as games themselves evolve, new categories appear, and hybrids between board games, role-playing games, and digital formats blur the boundaries, those definitions become less reliable. If you keep records with consistency, you quickly realize that the semantics of logging plays is almost as fascinating as the games themselves.
The term “winner” is perhaps the easiest to define. Most board games state explicitly who has won, either by points, survival, or completion of objectives. Cooperative games expand that definition: either the group collectively wins or collectively loses. A tie is a shared victory. Yet even here, anomalies arise. What happens when a cooperative game is cut short? What about games with no win or loss condition at all? Some modern titles are designed around the joy of building, exploring, or storytelling, without assigning a final victor. In such cases, the act of playing together becomes its own victory. By embracing flexibility in the definition, the log can remain inclusive while still true to the spirit of play.
The question of “date” introduces another subtle complication. Games do not always align with calendars. A long, multi-session campaign may stretch across weeks or months. A single play may begin just before midnight and end well after. Deciding whether to log it on the day it started or the day it ended might sound nitpicky, but for those who keep long-term records, consistency matters. I have resolved it by using the day on which I finish a game, treating late-night sessions as belonging to the day I first woke up. It avoids splitting plays across two days and maintains the rhythm of how I personally experience time. Of course, I’ve never tested this system by crossing the International Date Line mid-session—but perhaps one day that too will become an edge case.
“Players” are another surprisingly complex category. In the simplest sense, they are the people who sit down to participate. But reality intrudes. Sometimes a player steps away and another takes over. Sometimes two people control a single faction together, acting as a team. In these rare cases, I count whichever arrangement best reflects the spirit of participation. If someone meaningfully guided the decisions, they were a player, even if they shared their role. If someone merely observed, they were not. Sloppiness is inevitable, but intent carries more weight than strict technicality.
The thorniest issue is the definition of a “play.” In the early days, this was easy: one game equals one play. Yet modern design has challenged that notion. Consider a trick-taking campaign like The Crew. Each hand is a self-contained mission, but together they form an overarching story. Should each hand be counted as a separate play, or is the campaign as a whole one larger play? My approach has been to define a play as the smallest meaningful unit of gameplay that stands on its own. A single hand of The Crew counts as a play, just as one game of Love Letter does. Conversely, a multi-round game like Puerto Rico is a single play regardless of the number of rounds, because you would never play “just one round” and call it complete. Ambiguities remain—campaign games like Arydia or Mythwind resist tidy classification. In such cases, I rely on feel, logging what seems to be a coherent unit of experience, even if it amounts to a rough two-hour session.
Then there is the grand question: what counts as a “board game”? On the surface, the answer is obvious—games played on a board with physical pieces. But the reality is richer. Card games, dexterity games, and even stacking challenges all fit comfortably under the umbrella. Crokinole, despite lacking a traditional board, feels undeniably like a board game. Billiards does not. Beyond that, two categories create the most friction: role-playing games and digital games.
Role-playing games, with their open-ended storytelling, rarely fit the model of play logging. They lack the defined victory conditions, structured rounds, and bounded play sessions of board games. I dabbled in logging RPG sessions but abandoned it, though not without regret. Some RPG-inspired hybrids blur the line. Battlestations, for instance, is structured like a board game but functions like a role-playing system with a game-master rather than a competitive adversary. It defies neat categorization, but because it exists in a board game format and is catalogued as such, I count it. Fiasco too earned a place in my log, despite being more of a storytelling framework than a traditional game. These are the messy compromises that arise when passion collides with semantics.
Digital games pose another set of dilemmas. Pure video games, whether played alone or with friends, clearly fall outside my definition. But what about digital implementations of board games? If I play Dominion on a computer against AI, I don’t count it. If I play with strangers online with no communication, I don’t count that either. But if I sit across from a friend, each of us on our own devices, or if I use a platform with video chat to recreate the physical experience, I do count it. The litmus test is whether the game feels like a genuine board game session with people I know, rather than a solitary or anonymous digital diversion.
This brings me to the latest edge case: Sunderfolk. This title complicates the neat divisions I have relied upon for years. At first glance, Sunderfolk is a couch co-op video game. It uses phones as controllers, the television as the shared display, and blends digital convenience with tabletop mechanics. Each player manages a private hand of cards on their phone and contributes actions to the collective scenario by flicking cards onto the screen. The structure is reminiscent of a streamlined Gloomhaven, with tactical combat, modifier decks, and character classes that feel distinct. It is undeniably digital, yet the essence of play feels thoroughly board game-like.
The scenarios are compact, the mechanics elegant, and the experience social in the same way as gathering around a table. Unlike most video games, it does not rely on reflexes, button presses, or sprawling narratives. Instead, it borrows the language of tabletop design—cards, modifiers, tactical maps—and transforms it into a digital-only product. Were it to be manufactured in cardboard, with decks, tiles, and miniatures, it would not feel out of place on any board game shelf. But in reality, no such physical version exists.
So the question lingers: is Sunderfolk a board game? And if not, should I log it in my decades-long record of plays? On one hand, it checks nearly all the boxes of the tabletop experience. On the other, it is a digital-only creation without a BoardGameGeek entry or physical counterpart. My instinct tells me not to count it, aligning with the principle that my log is a history of tangible tabletop sessions. Yet emotionally, it feels like a board game, and ignoring it erases an experience that mirrors those I cherish most.
The very act of wrestling with this question highlights the heart of the matter. Defining plays, players, winners, dates, and games is not about strict objectivity but about creating a framework that captures the essence of one’s own hobby. By setting boundaries, even arbitrary ones, I create a personal language for my history of play. Sunderfolk simply exposes how fluid those boundaries can be, and how every evolving edge case forces me to reconsider what it means to participate in the world of games.
Between the Digital Table and the Physical Board
The ongoing question of whether or not to log Sunderfolk as a board game play cannot be answered without confronting a broader tension that has been steadily building in the hobby for years: the blending of physical and digital play. What once seemed like two separate worlds—board games at the table and video games on a screen—has increasingly turned into a continuum. At one end lies the classic cardboard-and-wood experience; at the other, sprawling digital epics of consoles and PCs. But between those poles, an entire landscape of hybrids has emerged.
This middle ground challenges not only the language we use but also the habits we form. Logging plays is one such habit. For decades, it was simple enough: you logged games that existed in boxes with boards, cards, dice, and tokens. Now, however, digital platforms like Board Game Arena, Tabletop Simulator, and official app adaptations have complicated the matter. Playing Carcassonne on a phone app can feel almost identical to playing the tile game in cardboard. Playing Dominion online with a group of friends replicates the rhythm of shuffling and deck-building without the fuss of physical setup. These experiences clearly belong to the category of “board games,” even if no physical box is present.
Yet the category is not infinitely elastic. No one would seriously claim that playing Mario Kart or Fortnite is playing a board game, even though they are multiplayer experiences with victory conditions. The distinction seems obvious, but it rests on intuition rather than a hard rule. The tension lies in the gray areas: what happens when a video game borrows the mechanics, the structure, and even the feeling of a board game?
Sunderfolk exists in exactly this liminal space. It is neither a straightforward digital implementation of an existing tabletop game nor a traditional console game. Instead, it adopts the language of modern cooperative dungeon crawlers, builds a ruleset that could plausibly exist in cardboard, and delivers it through a medium that is only digital. The result is a fascinating test case for anyone who thinks about what constitutes a board game.
To understand why Sunderfolk unsettles definitions, it is useful to look at the way board games have always been tied to their physicality. Part of the pleasure of the hobby lies in handling components: shuffling cards, rolling dice, placing wooden tokens. The table itself becomes a stage, and the tactile interactions anchor the abstract rules in the physical world. Even digital implementations often aim to recreate this tactile sense, animating dice rolls or rendering wooden pieces on screen.
But Sunderfolk is designed from the ground up as a digital product. The television is the central board, while players’ phones act as private hands of cards. Cards are flicked from phone to screen, not shuffled or drawn from a deck. The modifier system operates invisibly in the background, providing the same sense of evolving probability as a physical deck but without the hassle of shuffling. The absence of physicality should disqualify it from being logged as a board game—yet the structure and rhythm of play are so thoroughly borrowed from tabletop design that the instinct is to include it.
The challenge is that “board game” has always been as much about community and context as about components. What makes a game session feel like a board game play is the shared experience of players gathered around a common space, making decisions, and collectively building a story. In this sense, Sunderfolk succeeds entirely. The laughter, the discussion, the groans of defeat, and the cheers of victory all feel indistinguishable from those of a night spent with cardboard and dice. The digital screen becomes a surrogate board, the phones become surrogate hands of cards, and the essence of board gaming—social decision-making in a bounded ruleset—is preserved.
This is not the first time such questions have arisen. Hybrid experiments have existed for decades. Some board games incorporated VHS tapes, DVDs, or smartphone apps as companions. Early examples like Atmosfear or later titles like Chronicles of Crime demonstrate how digital tools can supplement cardboard. But in those cases, the physical components were always primary. Sunderfolk, by contrast, removes the physical entirely, and that is what makes it feel new.
For those of us who log plays, this creates a dilemma. The simplest rule might be: only count games that exist in physical form. This protects the integrity of the log and ensures consistency. But such a rule quickly runs into problems. What about prototypes, which may not yet exist in final published form but are undeniably board games? What about obscure titles with limited print runs or community-made games that never reach mass production? Logging them seems natural. Why should the absence of a manufactured box disqualify them?
Another possible rule is to count any game listed in a recognized database. If a title has a BoardGameGeek entry, then it qualifies. This has the advantage of outsourcing the definition to a community, sparing the individual from having to draw their own lines. But it also introduces inconsistencies. Some games listed there are clearly closer to role-playing games or storytelling experiences, while others are borderline party activities. The inclusion of Fiasco, for example, demonstrates how flexible the boundaries already are. If Fiasco counts, why not Sunderfolk? The absence of an entry seems more like an accident of history than a true disqualifier.
The real heart of the issue lies in what logging a play means. For me, it has never been simply about cataloguing a box opened or a title checked off. It is about documenting a shared experience of structured play. When I look back at my records, I see memories: who I was with, what we played, how it ended. Each entry is a snapshot of a moment of connection. In this light, Sunderfolk fits perfectly. The sessions I’ve had with friends around the television carry the same weight as nights of Gloomhaven or Pandemic. The record of play is less about what was on the table and more about what we experienced together.
And yet, consistency demands boundaries. If I open the door to Sunderfolk, do I then include other digital-only experiences that borrow heavily from tabletop mechanics? What about a console tactics game like Into the Breach, which feels like a distilled board game puzzle? What about cooperative roguelikes that use cards and decks as their main mechanic? If those count, the line between video games and board games dissolves entirely, and the log loses its clarity.
Perhaps the answer lies in the concept of “intent.” Board games are designed to be social experiences, to be played together in shared space. Video games, even those with multiplayer, often emphasize individual achievement, reflex, or immersive narrative. Sunderfolk deliberately adopts the design language of board games and insists on group play. It feels board game-like not just because of its mechanics, but because of its intent to recreate the social atmosphere of tabletop gaming in a digital shell.
Even so, intent may not be enough. A log is a personal artifact, and its boundaries reflect the choices of its keeper. For some, the purity of counting only cardboard matters. For others, flexibility allows the record to capture the full richness of play. There is no universally correct answer. My personal compromise has been to acknowledge the existence of edge cases, treat them as exceptions, and be transparent about the reasoning. I count prototypes, I count Fiasco, I count digital implementations played socially. But I stop short of including digital-only creations that lack a physical counterpart, even if they feel like board games. Sunderfolk, for me, lands on the far edge of inclusion—close enough to tempt, but not quite enough to cross the threshold.
The fascinating part of all this is not whether Sunderfolk is ultimately logged or not. It is that the game forces the question to be asked at all. It shows how the boundaries of board gaming are shifting, how new forms of design challenge our categories, and how personal rituals like play logging adapt to a changing landscape. The act of wrestling with definitions is itself part of the joy of being deeply invested in a hobby.
Looking forward, one can imagine a future in which digital tabletop hybrids become increasingly common. As technology continues to merge with design, more games may straddle the line between physical and digital. Augmented reality boards, phone-assisted play, and cloud-based campaigns may all test the limits of what feels loggable. If nothing else, Sunderfolk is a signpost pointing to that future, reminding us that our habits and semantics will need to evolve just as the games themselves do.
In the end, the decision to log or not to log remains personal. For now, I will not count Sunderfolk among my official records. Yet I cannot deny that it feels like it belongs. And perhaps one day, when the definitions have stretched further, I may revisit that choice and decide it deserves a place after all.
Sunderfolk as a Case Study in Digital Tabletop Design
When discussing what qualifies as a board game play, few examples illuminate the tension as clearly as Sunderfolk. Beyond semantics, the game is simply a fascinating piece of design. It borrows liberally from the language of modern tabletop dungeon crawlers while stripping away the excess complexity that often intimidates newcomers. In doing so, it occupies a rare position: unmistakably digital in presentation, yet undeniably tabletop in structure and feel.
At its heart, Sunderfolk is a cooperative experience. Players gather on the couch, phones in hand, facing a shared screen. The television displays a tactical grid filled with enemies, obstacles, and objectives. Each player controls a hero, represented not by miniatures or standees, but by a digital avatar on the map. Where the design takes a clever turn is in how it manages hidden information. Each player’s phone serves as their private hand of cards, mimicking the secrecy and individuality of a physical board game. Flicking a card from phone to screen mirrors the act of playing a card from one’s hand to the table, giving the experience a tactile, almost physical rhythm despite its digital form.
Mechanically, the game draws clear inspiration from Gloomhaven, though it deliberately pares back many of that title’s more intricate layers. In Gloomhaven, characters construct hands of ten or more cards, each with dual top and bottom actions. Players must constantly weigh the tension between short-term survival and long-term stamina, carefully timing rests to refresh their hand. The modifier deck, which evolves as characters level, provides an unpredictable layer of chance. It is a brilliant system, but it can be overwhelming, with dense rules, bookkeeping, and setup.
Sunderfolk distills this formula into something lighter and faster. Characters in Sunderfolk carry only a handful of cards at a time—three to be exact, chosen from a slightly larger pool. Each card lists a sequence of actions to perform in order, rather than separate top and bottom halves. This means that on any turn, a player has three clear options rather than a sprawling set of permutations. The design maintains tactical richness while eliminating much of the cognitive load. There is no need to debate whether to use the top of one card with the bottom of another, or to plan a rest cycle ten turns in advance. Choices remain meaningful, but they are cleaner, more accessible, and less exhausting.
The modifier deck system also sees refinement. Rather than a purely randomized spread of beneficial and harmful effects, Sunderfolk builds its deck with deliberate distributions. Early in a campaign, the deck contains a mix of good, bad, and neutral modifiers. As characters level, the balance shifts. Bad results grow less punishing, neutral results become slightly beneficial, and good results become more potent. This creates a sense of progression without overwhelming players with bookkeeping. The odds are transparent enough to be graspable, but still uncertain enough to generate tension. Combat remains suspenseful, but without the frustration that sometimes comes from unlucky streaks in Gloomhaven.
Scenarios in Sunderfolk are likewise streamlined. Where a single Gloomhaven mission might sprawl across two to three hours, requiring meticulous setup and teardown, Sunderfolk missions run shorter—compact, self-contained, and varied. Most involve tactical combat against waves of enemies, but the designers have interspersed puzzle challenges, exploration objectives, and secondary goals. The diversity ensures that the experience never collapses into a repetitive grind. Campaign pacing is brisk, keeping momentum high while still delivering the satisfaction of progression and discovery.
Character design also contributes to the sense of variety. Sunderfolk offers six different classes, each distinct enough to encourage experimentation. Unlike some lighter dungeon crawlers that reduce classes to cosmetic differences, Sunderfolk ensures that each one feels mechanically unique. Abilities push players toward different strategies, rewarding coordination and teamwork. The simplicity of the card system makes it easy for new players to grasp their roles quickly, but the interplay between abilities opens the door to deeper synergy for experienced groups.
What makes this particularly interesting in the context of logging plays is how closely the experience mirrors traditional board gaming sessions. Sitting side by side on a couch with friends, phones in hand, and collectively groaning when a modifier upends a carefully laid plan feels strikingly similar to a night around the table. The social interaction is front and center. Strategy discussions, shared tension, and celebratory high-fives happen just as naturally in Sunderfolk as in Pandemic or Spirit Island.
This similarity highlights an essential truth: the medium may differ, but the core activity remains the same. In both Sunderfolk and a physical dungeon crawler, players cooperate within a structured ruleset, manage limited resources, and face tactical challenges together. The boundaries blur when the digital medium is not used to emphasize reflexes or graphical spectacle, but to replicate the mechanics of tabletop play in a more streamlined package.
Still, there are differences worth noting. The digital nature of Sunderfolk means that bookkeeping is automated. Cards are shuffled invisibly, modifiers applied instantly, and enemy behavior resolved without a game master. This reduces downtime and errors but also removes the tactile satisfaction of handling components. For some players, the absence of cardboard, dice, and miniatures leaves a void that digital effects cannot fully replace. The ritual of setup and teardown, though often a burden, is also part of the charm of board gaming.
There is also the question of ownership and permanence. A physical board game sits on a shelf, ready to be revisited decades later. Its rules may endure long after publishers or servers have vanished. A digital-only title like Sunderfolk relies on ongoing platform support. If the servers disappear, or if operating systems change, the game could become unplayable. This fragility contrasts with the enduring nature of cardboard. For those who keep logs over decades, permanence matters—entries represent memories, and the assurance that the same game could be revisited at any time strengthens the value of the record.
Yet it would be a mistake to dismiss Sunderfolk simply because of its digital limitations. Its design demonstrates how digital tools can enhance tabletop-style experiences. By automating bookkeeping, shortening scenario length, and reducing rules complexity, it makes the dungeon crawler genre more approachable. For players who might balk at Gloomhaven’s 20-pound box and dense rulebook, Sunderfolk offers a way into the genre without intimidation. In this sense, it may even broaden the audience for board game-style play, bridging the gap between video game and tabletop communities.
The decision of whether to log Sunderfolk as a board game play thus becomes more than an exercise in semantics. It forces us to consider what we value most in the hobby. Is the essence of board gaming tied to its physicality, its cardboard and wood? Or is it tied to the social and strategic structures that games create, regardless of medium? If it is the former, then Sunderfolk remains outside the boundary. If it is the latter, then it clearly belongs.
My instinct continues to lean toward exclusion, not because Sunderfolk fails to feel like a board game, but because my personal log is a chronicle of physical tabletop experiences. Including digital-only games risks muddying the clarity of that archive. And yet, when I reflect on the sessions I have played, they feel indistinguishable in spirit from those I log. This tension underscores how slippery the definition of “board game” has become in a world of hybrid design.
Ultimately, Sunderfolk may not be logged, but it deserves recognition as an important milestone. It shows that the mechanics and spirit of tabletop gaming can thrive outside cardboard. It demonstrates how thoughtful design can borrow from one medium and flourish in another. And it highlights how our hobby is evolving, challenging us to reconsider definitions we once thought fixed.
In the next part, I want to turn the lens back on the practice of logging itself. Beyond semantics, what does it mean to keep a record of decades of play? Why does it matter, and how might it evolve as games like Sunderfolk blur the boundaries further? Because ultimately, the act of logging is not just about numbers or categories—it is about memory, meaning, and the ways we choose to tell the story of our play.
The Meaning of Logging Plays: Memory, Identity, and the Future of Gaming Records
By now, it should be clear that debates about whether to log a game like Sunderfolk aren’t really about checkmarks on a spreadsheet. They are about something far more personal: the meaning of play, the value of memory, and the stories we choose to preserve. On the surface, logging seems like a mundane hobbyist ritual. You finish a session, grab your phone or notebook, and jot down the who, what, when, and where. But underneath this simple act lies a complex interplay of identity, community, and continuity. It is not just bookkeeping. It is storytelling.
For many hobbyists, play logs are personal archives. They serve as living diaries of time spent with friends and family, reminders of rainy afternoons spent puzzling out strategy, or late nights when laughter drowned out any concern for winning or losing. The numbers—plays, wins, losses, scores—are scaffolding. They give structure to memory, but the true significance lies between the lines. A log entry reading “Catan – with Alex and Sarah – Sarah won” may seem trivial. Yet to the person who wrote it, it recalls a warm evening of negotiation, jokes about wheat shortages, and the thrill of Sarah’s clever final move. The log becomes a mnemonic, a trigger that brings the experience back into vivid detail.
In this sense, deciding what qualifies for the log is deeply personal. It is not about rigid definitions or community consensus, but about what you want your archive to reflect. If you log only cardboard-and-dice sessions, then your archive tells the story of physical gatherings, tactile rituals, and table-centered play. If you also log digital titles like Sunderfolk, then your archive broadens to encompass a more expansive definition of gaming, one that acknowledges the ways technology now shapes our shared experiences. Neither choice is wrong. What matters is consistency, and more importantly, intentionality.
The act of logging itself also shapes the way we perceive play. To log something is to validate it, to declare that it was real, meaningful, and worth remembering. It elevates a casual pastime into part of a larger narrative. In a way, logging is a form of authorship. Each entry is a sentence in the story of your hobby. Over years, the story grows into chapters, and across decades, into volumes. Some hobbyists look back at these volumes not only to reminisce, but to trace the arc of their own life—how friendships evolved, how tastes shifted, how milestones coincided with certain games. A favorite title logged dozens of times may represent an era of closeness with a particular group. A sudden gap may mark the birth of a child, a move to a new city, or the onset of a global pandemic. The log becomes a parallel autobiography.
In this light, Sunderfolk poses a fascinating question. If the essence of your logging is about who you were with and what you felt together, then excluding Sunderfolk seems artificial. The laughter, tension, and triumphs were real. They were shared in the same room, with the same intensity as any session of Pandemic or Azul. Does the lack of cardboard really erase their validity? For some, the answer will be no—it belongs in the log, because the social core is unchanged. For others, physicality is non-negotiable—logging Sunderfolk would muddy the boundaries of their archive. Both positions are defensible, but each reveals a different philosophy about what the log is for.
There is also a communal aspect to logging. Platforms like BoardGameGeek allow hobbyists to compare logs, tally statistics, and celebrate milestones. Here, definitions matter more, because shared databases rely on consistency. If one player logs Sunderfolk as though it were a board game, but another refuses, the aggregated data becomes muddled. This is where personal freedom collides with collective categorization. It is also where debates become heated. But even here, the underlying motivation is similar: to give shape to a hobby, to find meaning in patterns, and to preserve a record of culture.
Looking forward, the question will only grow more complicated. The line between board games and digital games is blurring faster than ever. Hybrid experiences are multiplying: apps that manage bookkeeping for physical games, AR overlays that enhance tabletop maps, VR simulations of board games with friends across the globe. If logging requires a strict definition of “board game,” it will become harder and harder to apply. A game like Mansions of Madness (Second Edition), which cannot function without an app, already complicates the boundary. So does Chronicles of Crime, where QR codes and app-driven narrative sit atop a skeleton of cards and boards. If these games are clearly considered loggable, then why not Sunderfolk? The distinction becomes more about tradition than substance.
This raises a philosophical question: should we cling to the concept of “board games” as a discrete category, or should we embrace a broader framework of “tabletop-style play”? The latter term accommodates both cardboard and digital designs that share the same DNA: cooperative strategy, resource management, hidden information, and group decision-making. It acknowledges that the essence of the hobby is not the medium, but the experience. If this is the path forward, then logging may evolve accordingly. Play logs might expand to include not just board games, but adjacent digital experiences that replicate the same structures of play.
At the same time, there is value in boundaries. Categories help us focus. For some hobbyists, the appeal of board gaming lies precisely in its physicality—the feel of shuffling cards, the clatter of dice, the sight of a sprawling board filled with tokens and miniatures. For them, the log is a tribute to this tactile world. Including digital titles would dilute its meaning. This is why the decision will always remain personal. There is no universal standard. Each player must decide whether their log is a museum of cardboard artifacts, or a scrapbook of all their playful memories, regardless of medium.
The future of logging may also be shaped by technology. Already, apps like BG Stats streamline the process, automatically tracking plays, player counts, and scores. Imagine a future where smart tables detect and record plays automatically, or where integrated apps track campaign progress across physical and digital formats. Logging could become less about deliberate ritual and more about passive capture. Yet even in this scenario, the question of what counts remains. Automation cannot decide what is meaningful—that choice must come from the players themselves.
For me, the answer remains deliberate exclusion. My log is a story of cardboard and wood, a celebration of the tactile rituals that drew me into the hobby. When I scroll through my entries, I want to see the arc of my tabletop journey in its most physical form. Sunderfolk was wonderful, memorable, and worth revisiting—but it lives in a parallel record, a mental scrapbook of digital experiments. My board game log remains pure, but that does not diminish the legitimacy of others who choose differently.
In the end, what matters is not whether you log Sunderfolk, but why you log anything at all. The act of recording play is not about chasing numbers, nor about pleasing a community database. It is about memory. It is about honoring the hours we spend with friends and family, acknowledging that those hours matter, and ensuring they are not lost to time. It is about seeing our lives reflected through the lens of play, and recognizing that games are not just diversions—they are a medium through which we live, connect, and grow.
So the next time you finish a session, whether it’s cardboard, cardboard-with-an-app, or fully digital, pause for a moment before deciding whether to log it. Ask yourself: does this belong in the story I am telling about my life in games? If the answer is yes, then log it proudly. If the answer is no, then let it live outside the archive, no less valid, but not part of that particular narrative. Either way, you have already won—because you have played, shared, and created a memory worth remembering.
That, ultimately, is the true meaning of logging: not keeping score, but keeping memory.
Final Thoughts
After exploring definitions, boundaries, and the curious case of Sunderfolk, it becomes clear that logging games is about far more than simple record-keeping. It is an act of personal storytelling. Each entry reflects not only a session played, but also the values and boundaries we choose to define for ourselves. Some will draw a tight circle around physical cardboard games. Others will open the circle wider to include digital hybrids or entirely virtual experiences. Both approaches are valid, because they stem from the same impulse: to capture the meaning of shared play.
Sunderfolk exemplifies the changing nature of what counts as a “game at the table.” Its digital format blurs lines, but its cooperative design and social feel root it firmly in the traditions of tabletop play. Whether it belongs in your log or not depends less on strict categories and more on how you want your own story of play to be told.
Ultimately, logging is not about chasing totals or proving legitimacy. It is about remembering moments of connection, laughter, and strategy. It is about seeing the role that games—however defined—play in our lives. If a session mattered to you, if it strengthened bonds or created memories, then it already counts, regardless of whether it ends up in your database.
The hobby will continue to evolve, and edge cases will keep surfacing. What will remain constant is the joy of gathering, playing, and reflecting. The log is just one way of honoring that joy. Whether or not Sunderfolk ever appears in your own records, the important thing is that it created a memory worth holding onto. And in the end, that is the truest kind of victory.