There is always a particular kind of anticipation that builds in the weeks leading up to a board gaming convention. It is not quite the same as waiting for a holiday, nor is it as tense as preparing for an exam, but it has that rare combination of eager curiosity and mild nervousness. By the time Pacificon rolled around in 2011, I was already imagining the sound of dice clattering against thick convention tables, the murmurs of other players deep in their strategy discussions, and the smell of coffee and slightly stale hotel carpeting that seems to accompany every tabletop gathering. It was a familiar ritual by then, but no less exciting. I had already been to a few conventions, and each one had given me a “convention game” – the one title I learned there, played repeatedly, and walked away obsessed with. At Kublacon, it had been A Game of Thrones, a grand, cutthroat affair of alliances and betrayals that I could not get out of my head for months. The year before that, it was Battlestar Galactica: The Board Game, which had left me hooked on the tension of hidden loyalty mechanics and nail-biting crises.
So, naturally, I wondered what game would define this Pacificon for me. I did not have to wait long to find out. The moment I walked into the dealer’s room on the first day, my eyes landed on a table stacked high with copies of Gears of War: The Board Game. I had been following its release news closely, intrigued by how they would capture the frantic, cover-to-cover shooting of the video game in a cooperative tabletop experience. There was something almost serendipitous about finding it there, waiting for me. The dealer, clearly aware of its popularity, was offering it at a generous discount, which sealed the deal. I bought it on the spot and carried it around the convention like a trophy, the box tucked proudly under my arm as if announcing to everyone that I had just secured the weekend’s main event.
It turned out to be a good conversation starter. When I dropped by Craig’s table – he was running yet another rousing game of Battlestar Galactica – the first thing he saw was the Gears of War box. Craig and I have a long-running tradition of finding each other at conventions for fun, thematic, Ameritrash-style games, and he grinned when he saw what I had brought. He confessed he already had his copy waiting at home, which was somehow both unsurprising and comforting. It meant I had someone who already shared my enthusiasm, someone who would be ready to play with me as soon as I cracked the shrink wrap.
That night, I could barely focus on anything else. Every other game I passed by, every conversation I had, seemed to lead back to the thought of setting up Gears of War on a table and finally seeing how it played. But my plans for a relaxed first playthrough were immediately thrown into chaos when a late-night work emergency kept me up far later than I had intended. I had hoped to carefully read the rulebook before teaching the game, but exhaustion won out, and I went to bed with only a cursory knowledge of the rules rattling around in my head.
The next day, I finally got my wish to play – though it was, as I warned everyone at the table, going to be rough. I joined Craig, Sean, and two others, lurking nearby until they finished their game of Rune Age. Once they wrapped up, I seized the chance to teach them Gears of War. As I began setting up the map, though, I immediately realized how unprepared I was. The rulebook that had seemed so straightforward in the quiet of my hotel room suddenly felt like a dense manual full of edge cases and timing windows. I set the map up wrong, misinterpreted the placement of some enemy spawn points, and struggled to explain why certain cards worked the way they did. Everyone was patient, but I could feel the pace of the game sagging under the weight of long rule lookups. It wasn’t until about an hour in that the flow finally began to click – just in time for us to die spectacularly.
Despite the mistakes, something was thrilling about that first loss. Gears of War is meant to be punishing, and even in our messy, slightly broken playthrough, the sense of being trapped and hunted by Locust forces came through. Craig seemed to enjoy it, though Sean looked a bit burned out by the experience. I couldn’t really blame him – without the built-in appreciation for the video game series, the endless onslaught of Locusts might have felt more frustrating than fun.
Later that night, Craig and I gave it another go as a two-player game, and the difference was remarkable. The pace was faster, the decisions cleaner, and the sense of cooperation much sharper. We moved tactically, covering each other’s advances and managing our cards with far more confidence than in the first attempt. At one point, Craig was just about to seal an emergence hole when a Wretch appeared out of nowhere and dealt me a brutal four damage, downing me instantly. Craig was swiftly overrun, and we lost again – but this time it felt deserved. The defeat was cinematic, almost, the kind of loss you can laugh about later over a late-night snack.
As I went to bed that night, I couldn’t help but turn the games over in my head, thinking about where we went wrong, which rules we misplayed, and how we could improve next time. That, to me, is always the mark of a game with staying power – when even a loss becomes a puzzle to unravel and an invitation to sit back down at the table.
Learning Through Failure and the Long Night of Gears of War
The next morning at Pacificon, I woke up still thinking about Gears of War: The Board Game. That was the signal I had found my convention game – the one I would keep chasing until I felt like I had truly mastered it. The frustration of the previous night was already giving way to determination. I wanted to get it right this time, to teach it properly, to see what the game felt like when played as designed. I grabbed my box, double-checked the rulebook over a quick breakfast, and wandered back into the gaming hall to look for new players.
Later that day, I came across three younger players who were clearly looking for something new to try. They were among the few people still seeking games at that hour, as Pacificon tends to attract an older crowd who often schedule their events ahead of time. These three were hungry for a challenge, and Gears of War looked like exactly what they wanted. I eagerly volunteered to teach them, setting up the board with fresh enthusiasm.
But once again, my lack of preparation came back to haunt me. I had not removed AI Card 7 – a common and notorious rules oversight that makes the game almost unwinnable. With four players, the difficulty spiked even higher, and every turn felt like the Locusts were swarming at twice their intended rate. At first, the group kept its spirits high. The table was lively with jokes, trash talk, and theatrical cries of “Boom!” whenever a Boomer hit the board. But as the game dragged on, the laughter gave way to grim concentration.
Two hours passed, then two and a half. We were sealing emergence holes at a glacial pace, and the deck kept spitting out more enemies than we could handle. Every time we made progress, another wave of Locusts would appear, undoing our hard work. Grenades ran dry, ammo was scarce, and our health pools were constantly teetering on the edge of collapse. By the time 2:30 a.m. rolled around, the group was exhausted. One player leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, while another rested his head on the table. Eventually, we surrendered.
There is a special kind of silence that falls over a table when a game ends not with a bang, but with a collective sigh. We didn’t even finish the scenario – we just called it quits when it became clear we had no path to victory. One of the players summed it up perfectly with a rueful grin: “Sorry, David, we like you, but your game sucks.” It was said with humor, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. I had wanted to give them a great experience, but instead I had subjected them to a marathon of frustration.
Still, even that failure taught me something valuable. I realized just how punishing the game could be when not set up correctly, and it deepened my respect for its design. This wasn’t just a game about blasting through waves of enemies – it was about managing resources, timing your moves, and balancing aggression with survival. The mistakes of the night would shape how I approached the next few plays, and they gave me a clearer picture of what the game wanted from me.
The following day, with most of the convention winding down, I managed to get two more plays in with Michael during open gaming. These were, in many ways, my redemption games. We were both free after my Runewars event, and we sat down determined to give the game the focused, streamlined playthrough it deserved. The first match went smoothly at first, and we felt like we were finally in control. Michael advanced confidently, covering fire at the ready – but then he got complacent. He dashed into the open to grab ammo, leaving himself exposed, and the Locust deck punished him brutally. Drones and Boomers activated all at once, and in moments, he was a red smear on the battlefield. I rushed in to revive him, but was quickly taken down myself. The Boomer that had taken him out seemed almost gleeful as it turned its rocket launcher on me. It was a short, sharp lesson in hubris.
We reset the board for one last game. This time, we played cautiously, covering every angle and prioritizing sealing emergence holes as early as possible. Our teamwork paid off. For the first time all weekend, I felt like we were playing the game at its intended pace – tense but fair, punishing but not hopeless. We even came dangerously close to losing again when AI Card 7 nearly buried us, but by sheer luck, it was the third-to-last card in the deck. We sealed the last hole just in time, and then faced one final desperate rush as the remaining Locusts charged us.
I was downed in the last moments of the game, dragging myself across the battlefield while groaning in mock agony. “Help me…” I muttered, and Michael, in character, shouted back, “Screw you, David! I have no time for this!” He went on a rampage, throwing grenades, gunning down Wretches, and somehow surviving against two Boomers with just a sliver of health left. In a cinematic final turn, he guarded against the last enemy attack with his very last card, winning us the game. It felt like a victory snatched from the jaws of certain death.
That win was more than just a triumph on the board – it was the moment that solidified Gears of War as my Pacificon 2011 game. It had taken five plays, countless rules lookups, and a fair share of frustration, but now I understood why the game worked and what made it special. The blend of tactical combat, risk management, and shared tension had clicked, and I could finally appreciate it on its own terms. Ending the convention on that note – a hard-fought, against-all-odds victory – left me grinning all the way home.
The Long March of Runewars and the Triumph of the Unexpected
If Gears of War was my personal challenge of Pacificon 2011, then Runewars was my epic saga – the grand, sweeping game that consumed an entire day and became the centerpiece of my convention story. I had signed up for the event weeks in advance, eager to finally play a full-length game with experienced opponents. Runewars is not a light game; it’s an asymmetric fantasy strategy title full of negotiation, timing, and military maneuvering, and it shines brightest when played with a group committed to seeing it through.
When I arrived at the table, the sight of the sprawling map was enough to make my pulse quicken. Modular boards stretched across the table like a patchwork of contested territories, each holding promise and danger. Four factions were ready for war, each with its unique units, strengths, and special rules. I chose my faction carefully, weighing its abilities and imagining the paths to victory. The other three players – Michael, Loyd, and a newcomer who had just learned the game – settled in with an easy camaraderie that made me instantly comfortable. The event coordinator gave us a quick rules refresh, and soon we were placing our starting strongholds, laying out influence tokens, and preparing for the first season of the war.
The first few rounds felt almost peaceful. We expanded our territories, gathered resources, and built our economies. There is a quiet pleasure in the opening of Runewars, when the board is still full of possibility and no one has drawn blood yet. Each turn, we played season cards, resolving events that could change the weather, spawn quests, or introduce sudden challenges. The rhythm of the game began to take hold – recruit, maneuver, harvest, consolidate – and the table was full of quiet calculation.
But by the second year, diplomacy gave way to conflict. Loyd, who was playing the undead Waiqar the Undying, made the first move. His armies marched into a contested region, seizing a key dragon rune. This was no small provocation – dragon runes are the victory condition of the game, and controlling them puts a target on your back. Michael, never one to sit idly by, responded by massing his forces on Loyd’s border, preparing for war. I watched the conflict unfold with interest, but I kept my own armies close to home, focusing on consolidating my position and quietly building strength.
The midgame was a swirling mess of battles, alliances, and broken promises. Loyd’s undead surged outward, but their reliance on numbers left them vulnerable to concentrated strikes. Michael and I struck deals, agreeing not to attack one another while Loyd was still a threat. The newcomer, who was playing the Latari elves, played cautiously, picking up quests and focusing on staying alive while the rest of us clashed.
Hours passed, and the game became a test of endurance as much as strategy. By the fifth year of the war, we were deep into the late game, and tension hung over the table like a storm cloud. My forces had grown powerful, and I was poised to make a dramatic strike that could have given me the win. I had enough dragon runes within reach, but I needed just one more season to secure them. The board state was a delicate balance: Michael had been bloodied but was still dangerous, Loyd had been pushed back but was not yet defeated, and the elf player was lurking on the edges, ready to swoop in if either of us faltered.
Then came the twist that would define the entire session. Loyd, who had been quiet for several turns, revealed that he had been hoarding influence cards that allowed him to trigger a surprise victory. In a single, stunning turn, he used his accumulated resources to recruit enough forces, retake a key region, and secure the final dragon rune he needed. Before Michael or I could react, the game was over. Loyd, who had been battered and bloodied for much of the midgame, emerged victorious.
The table erupted in laughter and mock outrage. Michael threw up his hands in disbelief, groaning dramatically, while I sat back in my chair with a mixture of frustration and admiration. There is something beautiful about a game that allows for such a reversal of fortune. Loyd had played the long game, conserving his resources, staying just threatening enough to keep us focused on him, but not so threatening that we crushed him completely. His victory felt earned – clever, daring, and timed to perfection.
It took us nearly six hours to play that game, and by the time we packed it up, I was both exhausted and exhilarated. Runewars had delivered everything I hoped for: tense battles, shifting alliances, dramatic reversals, and a satisfying narrative arc. It was the kind of game you talk about long after it’s over, replaying key moments in your head and wondering what might have happened if you had made just one different choice.
For me, that Runewars session was a reminder of why I love conventions. At home, getting four players together for a six-hour game is nearly impossible. But at Pacificon, it felt natural – just another day of gaming. The people I played with were patient, enthusiastic, and fun, which made the length of the game feel like a feature rather than a burden. Even the loss felt good, because it came at the hands of a clever opponent who played brilliantly.
When I walked away from that table, I was physically tired but mentally buzzing. Runewars had given me my epic, the story I would tell friends when they asked how my convention went. It was the experience that made the badge price, the drive, and the long day worth it. And even though I didn’t win, I knew I would be signing up for the Runewars event again the following year.
The Final Hours, Closing Games, and Convention Spirit
The last day of a convention always carries a certain melancholy. The hall feels quieter, the energy more subdued as people prepare to pack up their bags and head home. But for me, Sunday was still full of possibilities. I woke up early, grabbed a quick breakfast, and made my way to the open gaming area with one mission in mind – to squeeze in as many last plays as possible before the weekend ended.
Michael and I found ourselves free at the same time, and it didn’t take long before we agreed to set up Gears of War for a final run. There was something poetic about ending the convention with the same game that had defined much of my weekend. We played with a newfound sharpness, applying everything we had learned from our earlier missteps. The first mission was tense and punishing, but we pushed through with a coordinated assault that had us grinning as we barely survived wave after wave.
Then came the moment that will stay with me long after the convention. We were one step away from sealing the emergence hole and claiming victory when the Locust AI deck reminded us who was really in charge. A Wretch lunged at me, downing me instantly, and Michael found himself cornered with barely any health left. I thought it was over, but then he pulled off a cinematic turn worthy of the Gears video game series itself – charging headlong into the fray, hurling grenades with reckless abandon, and cutting through the final enemies like a one-man army. When the last Wretch fell, we erupted in cheers that drew curious glances from nearby tables.
That final victory was exactly the catharsis I needed. After so many rough starts and rules mistakes earlier in the weekend, it felt good to finally play the game the way it was meant to be played – fast, brutal, and heroic. We packed up the game with smiles, both of us satisfied that we had ended Gears on a high note.
The rest of the day was a more casual mix of gaming and socializing. I wandered the dealer’s hall one last time, scanning the shelves for hidden gems. Most of the good deals had already been snapped up, but I still managed to pick up a small card game at a discount. I chatted with vendors and fellow gamers, trading stories about the weekend’s highlights. There is a special camaraderie that emerges at conventions, a shared language of rules, dice rolls, and close calls that bonds strangers together.
At one point, I found myself teaching Pantheon to Sean, partly as a peace offering after dragging him through the mud in our disastrous first Gears session. Pantheon turned out to be a light, breezy eurogame, the kind of design where you could almost play on autopilot and still do well. We had a good laugh at the contrast between its calm, point-gathering mechanics and the chaotic firefights of Gears. To my surprise, I pulled off a narrow win by focusing on good tiles and timing my moves just right. It was a gentle game, but it was exactly what we needed to wind down after the intensity of the weekend.
Not every game was a hit, though. I finally learned Arkham Horror, a title that had loomed large on my gaming radar for years, but it left me surprisingly cold. The game felt like a series of random events strung together rather than a coherent narrative, and even with three expansions and house rules in play, I never quite felt like I understood what I was working toward. It wasn’t that the game was bad – plenty of people at the convention were clearly loving it – but for me, the experience fell flat. I prefer my narrative games to give me meaningful choices, not just dice rolls and card flips that decide my fate.
Late Sunday afternoon, the convention began to wind down in earnest. Tables were being folded, vendors packed up their boxes, and players drifted away in small groups, talking about what they had played and what they were taking home. I sold a few more games in the flea market, managing to clear out some shelf space at home. Negotiating with buyers was a mixed experience – everyone seemed to want a last-minute deal – but in the end, I was happy to see the games find new homes.
As I walked through the hall one final time, I reflected on the weekend as a whole. Pacificon may not have the sheer size or spectacle of the biggest conventions, but it has a charm that keeps me coming back. The pace is a little slower, the players a little older, but that just makes the games feel more thoughtful and deliberate. There’s time to linger over rules explanations, to savor the unfolding of a big strategy game, to talk through mechanics with fellow enthusiasts.
I left the convention tired but satisfied, my bag a little lighter from the games I had sold and my heart a little fuller from the games I had played. Pacificon 2011 had given me exactly what I wanted – discoveries, great battles, moments of hilarity, and a chance to connect with friends old and new. It reminded me why I love this hobby, why I put in the effort to travel and spend long hours at a table. Gaming, at its best, is about stories – the ones we tell, the ones we play through, and the ones we take home to share.
A Weekend of Dice, Drama, and Discovery
Pacificon 2011 reminded me why tabletop gaming conventions remain the beating heart of our hobby. A convention is not just a marketplace or a tournament hall. It is a gathering place — a living, breathing space where strategy meets serendipity, where strangers become allies, where cardboard maps turn into battlefields, and where dice can make or break a story you will remember for years. Over the course of one whirlwind weekend, I discovered new favorites, wrestled with rules, celebrated victories, and endured crushing defeats, all while sharing the table with friends and strangers who love games as much as I do.
Looking back now, Pacificon wasn’t just a series of games; it was a journey. And like any good journey, it had moments of frustration, moments of revelation, and moments where I found myself standing on my chair, cheering.
First Contact: Discovering Gears of War
Every convention has that one game that defines it — the one you think about on the drive home, the one you immediately add to your wishlist, the one that feels tied to that time and place forever. For me, at Pacificon 2011, that game was Gears of War: The Board Game.
I had heard rumblings about it before the convention: a fully cooperative, scenario-based adaptation of the hit video game franchise designed by Corey Konieczka, the mastermind behind Battlestar Galactica: The Board Game. I walked into the demo area with high hopes and a little skepticism. Licensed games, after all, are notorious for being shallow tie-ins rather than robust designs.
The first thing that struck me was the cleverness of the system. The game uses a hand-management mechanic where cards serve as both your actions and your health, forcing constant, agonizing choices. Every turn felt like a puzzle — do I sprint to the next cover, spend my last card to take a shot at the Locusts, or hold back and pray I survive the enemy’s retaliation?
Those first few plays were a disaster. We died early and often, our COG soldiers overwhelmed by waves of Locusts before we even made it halfway through the mission. I misread rules, Michael forgot key abilities, and more than once we made a mistake that doomed us. But even in failure, we were having fun — because each defeat taught us something. And then, finally, came the breakthrough game.
We set up the mission “Emergence” one last time before heading to dinner, determined to win. From the very start, it was tense. Ammo was scarce, enemies spawned in awful positions, and by the halfway point, I was down to two cards, one bad roll away from death. Michael managed to chain a pair of perfect attacks together, clearing a hallway just long enough for me to run forward, grab an ammo token, and hold the line. The finale played out like the climax of an action movie: we were nearly surrounded, our health was nearly gone, but we pulled off a final push, wiping out the last Locust and collapsing into laughter and high-fives.
Epic Conflict: Runewars at Dawn
If Gears of War was my defining cooperative experience of the convention, Runewars was my defining competitive one. Runewars is not a short game — it is an event. You sit down knowing you are committing several hours to building armies, securing resources, forging alliances, and clashing in epic battles.
Our game started at 9 a.m. on Saturday, and by 10 a.m., the table had already divided into camps. I had secured the western territories, a comfortable base of operations rich in food and influence. My friend Sam was to my north, and we struck a quick alliance: no attacks until Year 3, at which point we would reassess.
For the first two years, everything went according to plan. I grew my forces, recruited dragons, and positioned myself for what I assumed would be a two-player showdown in the late game. And then — the betrayal.
Year 3 dawned, and rather than attacking Sam, I turned east and launched a massive strike against the player everyone had assumed was a non-threat: Jake, the quiet newcomer sitting at the far end of the table. Jake had been playing conservatively, securing just enough resources to stay afloat. I figured I could sweep through his lands, claim the victory points I needed, and then turn my attention north.
Instead, Jake revealed he had been stockpiling influence cards all game. When I marched on his stronghold, he unleashed a barrage of event cards that turned the tide — blizzards slowed my advance, rebellions weakened my supply lines, and in the decisive battle, he crushed my best army with a perfectly timed tactic card.
The entire table erupted. Sam and the other players immediately shifted alliances, seeing their chance to seize territory while my armies were shattered. By the end of the round, Jake had leapfrogged all of us in points, grabbing a surprise victory on the final turn . That game reminded me why I love Runewars: because it allows for big, dramatic moments like that — the kind of moments that would feel unfair in a smaller game, but in an epic strategy game feel like legend.
Drama in Space: Battlestar Galactica
And then, of course, there was Battlestar Galactica. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a convention where someone wasn’t playing it, and Pacificon was no exception. We gathered a full table on Saturday night, which meant two Cylons lurked among us.
I drew “Not a Cylon” for my Loyalty card, but that didn’t save me from suspicion. In the first few turns, I made a risky play — spending a precious resource to prevent a crisis from escalating — and half the table immediately decided I must be a Cylon trying to gain trust. The accusations flew, the brig saw more use than usual, and by the time the Sleeper Phase hit, no one trusted anyone.
Of course, that’s when the real Cylons revealed themselves.
The second half of the game was pure chaos. We barely limped through the final jump with a single population token left. The whole table was laughing, shouting, arguing, and cheering. And when the dust settled, win or lose, everyone agreed: there is still nothing else like Battlestar Galactica.
The People Behind the Pieces
As much as I love games, the true magic of Pacificon wasn’t the cardboard or the dice — it was the people. Some of my favorite memories from the weekend didn’t happen at the table at all. They happened in hallways, where we swapped stories about the games we’d just played. They happened in the flea market, where I sold a stack of old titles and picked up a few hidden gems. They happened when I taught a game to a newcomer and saw that spark of excitement when they “got it” for the first time.
A convention is a reminder that this hobby is a community. It’s easy to sit at home and play with the same group week after week, but when you step into a convention hall, you realize just how wide and diverse the gaming world is . By the time Sunday night rolled around, I was exhausted — and completely content. Pacificon 2011 had given me exactly what I wanted: a weekend of fun, challenge, and connection.
I drove home with a bag full of games, a head full of new strategies, and a renewed appreciation for why I love this hobby. It’s not just the mechanics or the miniatures or the rulebooks — it’s the experiences. The moments of tension, the roars of laughter, the heartbreak, and the comebacks. It’s the chance to sit across a table from someone and share a story, even if that story is told with dice and cards.
Conclusion
Pacificon 2011 was a reminder of why conventions remain the heart of the tabletop hobby. Over the course of the weekend, I discovered new favorites, wrestled with rules, celebrated victories, and endured defeats, all while sharing the table with friends and strangers who love games as much as I do. Gears of War: The Board Game became the defining experience of the convention, teaching me patience as I stumbled through my first plays and delivering pure adrenaline as Michael and I fought through that final, desperate victory. Runewars gave me the sweeping, strategic conflict I crave, complete with tense alliances, clever plays, and a surprise ending that saw the least experienced player seize glory. Battlestar Galactica, as always, provided drama and laughter, reminding me why it is still one of the most compelling semi-cooperative games ever made.
Beyond the games themselves, what made Pacificon truly special was the shared sense of community. Whether trading stories in the hallways, teaching games to eager newcomers, or selling titles at the flea market, I left with renewed appreciation for the people who make this hobby great. It was a weekend of fun, challenge, and connection – exactly what gaming should be.