The Gaming Hoopla has become a fixture in my calendar, a convention that may not boast the largest halls or biggest spectacles but captures something more enduring: the joy of gathering around tables to play. Nestled in northern Illinois, it blends the excitement of discovery with the comfort of tradition, offering a space where games are more than diversions—they are the foundation for stories, friendships, and shared laughter. Since my first visit years ago, the event has been less about spectacle and more about connection, where familiar faces mix with new ones and every session leaves behind its own small narrative. The Hoopla’s commitment to both play and purpose, supporting Aurora Cancer Care, gives it a unique warmth. What follows is a chronicle of experiences at this year’s convention, where each game played became another thread in the rich tapestry of memory and camaraderie.
A Convention with Character
The Gaming Hoopla is not the largest or flashiest gathering in the gaming calendar, but it carries an enduring charm. Nestled in northern Illinois, it manages to combine the intimacy of a community event with the excitement of a well-curated convention. For me, it has become a yearly ritual, one that began in 2018 when a friend suggested we meet there to enjoy a shared passion for board games. Despite having other conventions closer to home, Hoopla remains the one I prioritize, for reasons that become clearer with each visit.
Its focus lies primarily on playing rather than on commercial spectacle. Vendors are present, and opportunities to buy are certainly available, but the heart of the convention is at the tables, where players gather to explore old favorites, discover new designs, and rekindle the social spark that gaming thrives upon. The additional element of charity—raising funds for Aurora Cancer Care—imbues the entire experience with a sense of purpose that lingers beneath the laughter, the dice rolls, and the shuffle of cards.
A Circle of Companions
Each year brings with it a slightly shifting group of companions, and this time the dynamic was especially interesting. Jason, whose invitation had drawn me to Hoopla years ago, was absent, but the void was filled in unexpected ways. Matt, a consistent partner in gaming adventures, brought his brother-in-law, Josh, all the way from South America, while Jonathan, another steadfast member of the circle, was also present. Brandon, a local friend, added his presence on Saturday. Together, we formed a lively and adaptable group that moved easily between heavy strategy games and lighter diversions.
The convention is not only about the games themselves but about the conversations between moves, the camaraderie that forms around shared struggles, and the collective memories that arise from triumphs and mishaps alike. Hoopla thrives on this atmosphere of friendliness, which extends beyond personal circles to the wider crowd. Strangers sit down at tables and become collaborators or rivals, and in that moment, bonds are forged in the most natural of ways.
The Opening Hours
Our arrival on the first day was tinged with the usual anticipation and a small degree of logistical juggling. Collecting Josh from his hotel near the airport meant arriving a little later than planned, and the registration line was long enough to raise doubts about whether scheduled events would begin on time. Yet in true convention fashion, patience prevailed, and the organizers accommodated those who were delayed.
The first scheduled game of the event set the tone: NEOM, a title I had observed in the past but never had the opportunity to try. The game was explained by a host willing to wait a few minutes, a small but significant gesture that exemplifies the congenial spirit of Hoopla. This early kindness framed the weekend in a light of goodwill, a reminder that conventions thrive not just on rules and schedules, but on the flexibility and generosity of their volunteers and attendees.
NEOM: Building a Modern City
NEOM combines elements reminiscent of 7 Wonders with the spatial puzzle of Sim City, creating a distinctive hybrid of drafting and tile-laying. Its structure is instantly familiar to those who have played other civilization-building games: three eras unfold, tiles are selected to be played, discarded, or sold, and resources flow across networks of neighbors. Yet within this familiar skeleton lies a layer of originality, particularly in how tiles are placed to shape the growth of a personal city.
The game introduces disaster tiles, which afflict all but the player who selects them. This mechanic creates a subtle psychological tug-of-war. Selecting a disaster rarely benefits the chooser, but leaving it in circulation can invite far greater harm. The resulting tension adds spice to the decision-making process, forcing players to weigh not only their own progress but the avoidance of collective misfortune.
Even with the late start, the session concluded neatly within its hour. The blend of tough choices, rapid pacing, and spatial problem-solving made for an invigorating opener. My city rose steadily through careful management, and a late surge of wealth secured me the victory. The satisfaction of eking out a narrow win, combined with the appeal of the mechanics, left such a strong impression that I sought out a copy afterward to introduce to my own group.
A Lighter Pause
After the cerebral exercise of NEOM, the group drifted toward something less demanding while waiting for Jonathan to rejoin after his volunteer duties. Matt and Josh had just finished a game of Dodos Riding Dinos, which they described as underwhelming, so we opted for a short filler from the play-and-win library: What the Heck?, also known in some circles as Raj.
The rules are simple. Players vie for numbered cards ranging from negative to positive values, using their own limited hand of numbered cards to bid. Highest numbers secure positive points, lowest claim negatives, but matching bids cancel out entirely. The elegance lies in its unpredictability. With each reveal, alliances shift, strategies collapse, and fortune swings with almost comical brutality.
As fate would have it, Matt prospered from the synchronicity between Josh and me, as our overlapping decisions frequently handed him easy gains. I ended the game with no points, mirrored by Josh, though his failures at least carried more spectacle. What the Heck? Shines brightest in groups of four or five, but even at three players, it provided the levity and amusement needed between heavier sessions.
Lunch and the Familiar Pull of Glory to Rome
A tradition within a tradition, our midday ritual took us to Chipotle before returning to the convention hall for one of the weekend’s recurring highlights: Glory to Rome. It is a game that holds a singular place in my affections, despite—or perhaps because of—its intimidating learning curve.
Teaching the game can be arduous, particularly for newcomers. Josh, still weary from international travel, was in less than ideal condition to absorb its nuances. Nevertheless, we pressed forward. The richness of Glory to Rome lies in its interplay of roles, buildings, and tactical timing, all of which coalesce into a fast-moving and unpredictable tableau.
Matt built a network of helpers to accelerate his construction, while Jonathan completed his Circus Maximus, doubling the power of his clients. I, seeing danger on the horizon, sought to cut the game short by finishing my Catacombs early, believing my points would hold. Yet a miscalculation left me tied with Matt, who claimed victory through a tiebreaker. Such outcomes encapsulate the beauty of the game: razor-thin margins, clever plays hidden in plain sight, and the inevitability of surprises.
In the Year of the Dragon: A Brutal Showcase
The afternoon shifted tone once again with In the Year of the Dragon, a title I had admired earlier in the year and now found myself teaching to a new group. Where many designs by Stefan Feld are accused of being point-salad affairs, this one is different. It is sharp, harsh, and unyielding, presenting a cascade of disasters that players must endure through careful planning.
My attempt at instruction, however, faltered under pressure. Having just emerged from teaching Glory to Rome and waiting for the prior group to vacate the scheduled table, I began flustered and never quite regained my composure. My explanations lacked clarity, my own decisions were sloppy, and I paid the price with a crushing defeat.
Despite my personal missteps, the table enjoyed the intensity. Losing citizens to war, disease, or famine is not an easy pill to swallow, yet the game transforms these hardships into engaging challenges. It reminded me that at conventions, the role of teacher often overshadows the role of competitor. Among friends at home, I can balance both, but with strangers, my instinct to ensure their enjoyment eclipses my own pursuit of victory.
Shifting Toward Lighter Engagements
As the day wore on, I reflected on how my approach to convention gaming has evolved. Where once I would volunteer to teach sprawling, intricate titles that rarely see play, I have come to prefer guiding shorter, more accessible games. They offer the chance for multiple plays, foster quicker rapport among participants, and reduce the pressure of lengthy explanations.
This transition would be evident in the games to come, as titles like Carpe Diem, Forest Shuffle, and even lighter diversions filled the schedule. Each brought its own distinct rhythm, creating a balance that kept the weekend lively without descending into exhaustion.
Strategy and Serendipity
By the second half of the first day, the convention had found its rhythm. The earlier rush of registration had faded, the rooms were alive with overlapping conversations, and tables were filled with dice, cards, and wooden tokens. The atmosphere carried a warmth that contrasted sharply with larger, more commercial gatherings. Here, the emphasis was not on spectacle but on immersion, and every game played seemed to reinforce that philosophy.
As the hours advanced, our group sought experiences that balanced thought and levity. Heavy games offer memorable arcs, but they also demand stamina, and pacing is essential at an event designed for three long days. I had learned over the years that alternating between intensity and relaxation was the surest way to avoid mental fatigue. The schedule reflected this philosophy: demanding titles paired with lighter interludes, each complementing the other.
Carpe Diem at the Table
The first of the evening’s highlights was Carpe Diem, another design from Stefan Feld. Unlike the punishing cruelty of In the Year of the Dragon, Carpe Diem embraces elegance and accessibility. Players draft tiles from a central rondel, placing them carefully in personal districts to fulfill objectives. Its brilliance lies in how straightforward decisions blossom into layered consequences, with placement restrictions and scoring conditions intertwining subtly.
Teaching the game proved far smoother than my earlier attempt, partly because the rules are more intuitive, and partly because the group was already warmed up. Josh, despite still battling fatigue, absorbed the mechanics quickly, and the others slipped easily into the flow. What unfolded was a graceful contest where every move felt tight yet rewarding.
I recall the tension of selecting a tile that fit perfectly into my district, only to realize that leaving another option unclaimed had granted Jonathan an even greater boon. This push-and-pull of opportunity cost defines the game’s appeal. My final score lagged behind, but my enjoyment was undiminished. Feld’s designs often reveal their brilliance in subtlety, and Carpe Diem showcased that in abundance.
Shards of Infinity: A Duel of Decks
To lighten the pace further, we turned to Shards of Infinity, a deck-building game that evokes echoes of Ascension but accelerates the tempo. Each player begins with a basic deck, gradually acquiring more powerful cards from a shared market. What distinguishes it is the mastery system, which allows cards to grow stronger over time, rewarding patience with devastating power.
Our session, however, was far from patient. From the outset, aggression dominated. Josh lunged into offensive strategies, unleashing damage with little regard for defense, while Matt and Jonathan responded in kind. I attempted to hedge, building some economy alongside attack potential, but the pace was relentless. Within half an hour, the game had resolved, leaving Josh triumphant through sheer audacity.
What makes Shards of Infinity appealing at conventions is precisely this speed. It delivers the tension and escalation of a larger deck-builder but in a fraction of the time. It requires little setup, plays briskly, and leaves players eager for another round. We resisted the temptation only because the evening held more in store, but the experience left a lasting impression of efficiency and exhilaration.
Forest Shuffle and Its Enchanting Appeal
The contrast between metallic futurism and pastoral serenity could not have been starker when we moved to Forest Shuffle. Where Shards of Infinity thrives on combat, Forest Shuffle celebrates growth, balance, and ecological harmony. The game invites players to cultivate a thriving woodland, attracting animals, planting trees, and fostering symbiotic relationships across the tableau.
What struck me most was the artwork. Each card seemed alive, capturing the gentle vibrancy of nature in a way that drew everyone into the experience. Mechanics supported the theme beautifully: placing certain animals near compatible trees multiplied their value, while neglecting balance carried long-term consequences.
Our session unfolded like a quiet conversation between the players and the deck itself. Strategic choices mattered, but there was also a sense of surrender to the rhythm of the draw, as if the forest’s growth had its own will. For me, this created a uniquely meditative state, a reminder that not all games must push players into conflict or scarcity. Some, like Forest Shuffle, allow delight to emerge in the act of creation itself.
A Return to Familiar Ground
As night settled over the convention, we drifted back toward games of comfort—those titles so ingrained in our collections that they feel like old companions. For Jonathan and me, this meant revisiting Bruges, a Feld classic known for its versatile card system. Each card can serve multiple purposes—building structures, recruiting characters, fending off disasters—and the art lies in balancing short-term needs with long-term planning.
This was a teaching session for Josh, and though the learning curve is steeper than in Carpe Diem, he adapted quickly. The interplay of personalities on the cards created humorous and sometimes chaotic moments, as Matt leaned heavily into character synergies while I pursued a more cautious, diversified approach. In the end, Jonathan’s sharp eye for efficiency carried him to victory.
Bruges reaffirmed why Feld’s portfolio resonates so strongly within our group. His designs rarely rely on spectacle but on interlocking mechanisms that generate tension from within. Each playthrough feels distinct, shaped by the order of cards and the rhythm of decisions, yet always grounded in a solid framework.
The Late-Night Energy
One of the most charming aspects of Hoopla is the endurance of its participants. Even as the clock creeps toward midnight, tables remain full, laughter echoes through hallways, and tired eyes still gleam with enthusiasm. The energy is infectious. For those immersed in hobby gaming, there is a collective understanding that these weekends are fleeting, and every hour spent at the table is an hour claimed from the ordinary routines of life.
That night, our group debated whether to embark on another heavier title or to wind down with something light. Ultimately, practicality won out, and we settled into shorter fare that allowed conversation to flow freely. The exact titles blur in memory—small-box games, quick fillers, perhaps a roll-and-write or two—but what remained clear was the shared sense of contentment.
There is a unique intimacy to late-night convention gaming. Fatigue lowers barriers, humor becomes more spontaneous, and mistakes are met with laughter rather than frustration. Even the smallest games take on a heightened sense of significance, as though they are keeping alive the fragile flame of collective joy until sleep finally demands surrender.
Reflection on the Day
As I finally stepped away from the hall and returned to my hotel room, I carried with me the impressions of a day rich with contrasts. There had been triumphs and defeats, smooth teachings and stumbles, laughter and concentration. Each game, whether grand or modest, had contributed to a mosaic of experiences that exemplified the essence of the convention.
More than the mechanics themselves, what lingered was the sense of shared discovery. Games like Carpe Diem and Forest Shuffle had reminded me that elegance often lies in simplicity, while titles like Shards of Infinity demonstrated how even aggressive competition can feel refreshing when framed in brevity. The conversations that unfolded alongside the gameplay were just as vital, weaving stories into the fabric of the weekend.
And beneath it all, the quiet knowledge that every dice roll, every shuffled deck, and every choice was indirectly contributing to a greater purpose—the support of a charitable cause—lent the experience an undercurrent of meaning. That subtle thread elevated the enjoyment beyond mere recreation, grounding it in a sense of community and care that defines the very soul of Gaming Hoopla.
A Morning of Anticipation
The second day of the convention always carries a distinct energy. Where Friday feels like an opening act, Saturday surges forward with momentum, filled with a larger crowd, louder voices, and a richer diversity of games spread across every table. I woke early, the echoes of the previous night’s laughter still lingering in memory, and made my way toward the venue with an eagerness that had not dulled despite the late finish.
Inside the halls, the air buzzed with a sense of expectancy. Volunteers moved briskly between tables, organizers adjusted schedules, and attendees carried bags filled with snacks, water bottles, and perhaps the occasional newly purchased title. The Saturday morning crowd is a blend of fresh arrivals and those already steeped in the previous day’s rhythm. For our group, it was a day to lean into the longer, heavier experiences while still maintaining the balance of variety that had made Friday so satisfying.
Pipeline and Its Industrial Puzzle
One of the games I had been most eager to try was Pipeline, a demanding economic and spatial puzzle that had gained a reputation for its intricacy. The theme revolves around refining oil, with players constructing a network of interconnected pipes while managing a delicate market system. It is not a game that forgives hesitation, nor one that rewards casual engagement. Every action must be deliberate, every investment calculated.
Sitting down to the game, I felt both excitement and apprehension. The rules explanation was thorough, yet the sheer number of options available in the opening turns made it clear that mistakes could echo across the entire session. My early strategy focused on building an efficient pipeline system, weaving connections in a way that would streamline future refinements. Others leaned more heavily into market speculation, buying crude oil cheaply and hoping to capitalize later.
What struck me most was the elegance of the spatial puzzle. Laying pipe segments felt almost tactile, a miniature exercise in engineering. Yet this beauty was undercut by the relentless economics of the system. Prices fluctuated, loans loomed, and inefficiency carried real punishment. By the end, I was buried beneath debts, my pipelines intricate but my profits paltry. Jonathan, ever the sharp strategist, had navigated the market masterfully, securing victory with calm precision.
Pipeline was exhausting but rewarding, the kind of game that leaves one mentally drained yet strangely fulfilled. It reminded me of why conventions are such ideal places to explore heavy designs. At home, assembling a group willing to commit several hours to such intensity can be challenging, but here the environment encourages it. Everyone at the table is primed for immersion, ready to lose themselves in the puzzle without distraction.
A Lighter Diversion in Between
After the industrial rigor of Pipeline, our group gravitated toward something lighter to reset our minds. A filler game was pulled from the play-and-win library, though the exact title now eludes me in the haze of memory. What remains vivid is the laughter that ensued, the ease with which simple mechanics facilitated conversation and camaraderie.
That is one of the hidden strengths of conventions: the ebb and flow between intensity and levity. Without lighter diversions, the heavier games risk overwhelming the experience. Without the heavier games, the event could drift into frivolity. Together, they form a rhythm that sustains energy across long days and nights.
The Drama of Blood Rage
Once refreshed, we returned to a modern classic: Blood Rage. Eric Lang’s Viking-themed area control game has long been a favorite among our group, blending drafting, combat, and mythological flair into a tightly wound package. Its reputation for drama is well-earned, as battles rage not only across the board but within the strategies of each player’s clan.
This session proved no exception. The opening draft already carried tension, as powerful cards circulated and difficult choices had to be made. I leaned into a strategy that emphasized glory in death, sending warriors to their demise in hopes of reaping points through the afterlife. Matt pursued control of key provinces, building strength through dominance, while Josh experimented with monster cards to augment his forces.
The clashes were fierce. Entire clans were annihilated in battles that ended not in despair but in strategic triumph. Timing proved crucial, as the destruction of a province through Ragnarok could swing scores dramatically. I still recall the moment when Jonathan, with characteristic foresight, secured a card that doubled his glory from losing battles, turning apparent defeats into surges of points.
By the final age, the table was electrified. Every battle felt decisive, every card reveal carried weight. In the end, Jonathan’s calculated risks paid off, propelling him to victory once again. Though I fell short, the thrill of the experience was undeniable. Blood Rage has a way of crafting narratives that linger, stories of betrayal, sacrifice, and unexpected triumphs. That session added another chapter to the tapestry of our shared gaming history.
The Subtle Charms of Azul
To balance the thunderous intensity of Blood Rage, we turned next to the serene beauty of Azul. Few games manage to combine elegance, accessibility, and aesthetic satisfaction as gracefully as this tile-laying masterpiece. The tactile pleasure of drafting colorful tiles, arranging them in patterns, and watching mosaics emerge is unlike anything else.
Our group settled into the game with quiet focus, the earlier clamor giving way to contemplation. Decisions in Azul may seem small, yet the consequences ripple outward with surprising force. Choosing one set of tiles can open opportunities for others while closing off your own future options. The satisfaction of completing a row or column is counterbalanced by the sting of wasted tiles falling into the penalty track.
In this particular session, I found myself caught between ambition and prudence. I reached for bold patterns, only to miscalculate and suffer penalties that eroded my lead. Meanwhile, Matt played conservatively, securing steady points while avoiding major pitfalls. The game concluded with him edging out the rest of us by a slim margin, his quiet discipline rewarded over my more flamboyant risks.
Azul reaffirmed its place as a perfect convention game. Its rules are easy to teach, its playtime brisk, and its beauty undeniable. Even after countless plays, it continues to captivate, proving that elegance can be as memorable as complexity.
The Weight of Kanban EV
As the evening wore on, we embarked on one of the heaviest titles of the weekend: Kanban EV. This sprawling design by Vital Lacerda simulates the management of an automobile factory, complete with assembly lines, research tracks, and the watchful oversight of a demanding manager. It is a game of precision, long-term planning, and constant optimization.
Teaching Kanban EV is no small task. Its rules are numerous, its iconography dense, and its systems deeply intertwined. Yet the reward for perseverance is immense. Every decision feels connected, every action part of a larger machinery. It is less a game and more a simulation, pulling players into its world with relentless immersion.
During our session, I focused heavily on design and testing, hoping to leverage innovations into endgame points. Jonathan invested in training, securing certifications that expanded his efficiency. Matt pursued assembly, churning out cars with methodical focus, while Josh experimented broadly, dabbling in multiple avenues. The interplay of strategies created a fascinating dynamic, as each path intertwined with the others.
The presence of Sandra, the in-game manager, added tension to every turn. Her inspections loomed constantly, penalizing those who neglected certain aspects while rewarding those who excelled. More than once, her intervention forced me to alter my plans, redirecting energy into overlooked areas to avoid costly setbacks.
By the end, exhaustion had set in. The session had stretched for hours, every brain cell engaged, every decision scrutinized. Victory belonged to Jonathan once again, his mastery of certifications granting him an insurmountable advantage. Yet the memory of the game transcended the score. Kanban EV had delivered a monumental experience, the kind that leaves players both drained and exhilarated, proud simply to have endured its challenge.
Reflection on Experience
As the second day drew to a close, I reflected on the sheer range of experiences packed into its hours. From the industrial puzzle of Pipeline to the mythic drama of Blood Rage, from the tranquil artistry of Azul to the sprawling simulation of Kanban EV, the day had been a kaleidoscope of contrasts. Each game had demanded something different: calculation, courage, creativity, or endurance.
What unified them all was the context in which they were played. The convention provided not only the space and time but also the spirit that elevated each session. Strangers became collaborators, friends became rivals, and laughter bridged the gaps between wins and losses. The hall, filled with hundreds of players, pulsed with the shared joy of discovery.
Leaving the venue late that night, weary yet satisfied, I carried with me a sense of gratitude. Gaming Hoopla had once again proven why it held such a special place in my calendar. The games were the centerpiece, but the true treasure lay in the experiences they created and the memories they etched into the fabric of friendship.
Stories Woven Through Play
The final day of the convention always feels different. The previous nights leave their mark, fatigue softens the crowd, and the halls echo with a quieter rhythm. Yet within this calmness lies a kind of reverence. Players know their time is limited, that only a handful of sessions remain before farewells are exchanged and real life reclaims its place.
I arrived that morning with coffee in hand and a determination to make the most of the hours left. My group was slower to assemble, each of us negotiating the lingering weight of late nights and heavy games. Still, the lure of one more experience at the table was enough to shake off weariness. Sunday sessions often carry a bittersweet quality, as though every dice roll and every card drawn is part of a closing act.
The Splendor of Castles of Burgundy
One of the day’s first highlights was The Castles of Burgundy, a classic Stefan Feld design that remains a staple in many collections. Its elegance lies in the way dice, tiles, and hexagonal boards interlace to create an endlessly replayable puzzle. It has no flashy components, no elaborate miniatures, yet it holds a timeless magnetism that continues to attract players.
We spread out the familiar boards, and soon the table was filled with hexes representing buildings, animals, and knowledge. Each die roll presented choices—whether to expand territories, claim bonuses, or set up future turns. The beauty of the game rests not in its theme but in the cascade of efficiency it demands, where every decision feels consequential.
During this play, my strategy leaned into knowledge tiles, seeking incremental advantages that would compound as the game advanced. Matt focused on shipping, capitalizing on steady points, while Jonathan leaned into animals, filling pastures with relentless speed. Josh, newer to the game, experimented broadly, savoring its depth.
The session was close, as it often is. Jonathan edged ahead with a decisive set of animal tiles, while I lagged slightly behind despite my efforts. Yet what struck me most was how effortlessly the game created engagement. Its systems, though familiar, never feel stale, reminding me why The Castles of Burgundy continues to be celebrated after so many years.
A Pause for Reflection
Between heavier games, we took a moment to pause. Lunch was unhurried, conversations flowed more easily, and the mood felt lighter than on previous days. This interlude was more than rest—it was part of the convention’s rhythm. Time away from the table allows the mind to breathe, to let strategies and rivalries fade, and to enjoy the company itself.
For me, these pauses are as vital as the games themselves. They provide space to reflect, to notice the small details of the convention: the volunteers resetting games with tireless patience, the families introducing children to their first hobby titles, the quiet corners where two players lean over a rulebook together. These fragments, though less dramatic than a climactic victory, compose the soul of the event.
The Enigma of Barrage
The afternoon drew us toward Barrage, a demanding game of energy production that we had long intended to revisit. Its premise is rooted in the construction of dams, conduits, and powerhouses, all orchestrated to harness water for electricity. The system is notoriously unforgiving, requiring precision and foresight, with errors compounding mercilessly.
From the first turn, the struggle was palpable. Water flowed across the board, tantalizing yet elusive. Competing for limited spaces added pressure, as building too late meant surrendering opportunities to rivals. My early investment in infrastructure seemed promising, but soon I found myself choked by inefficiency, my dams failing to generate the returns I had envisioned.
Jonathan once again displayed remarkable foresight, anticipating the flow of water and positioning his powerhouses with surgical precision. Matt pursued a more opportunistic route, seizing chances as they emerged, while Josh attempted to balance expansion with resource management. The interplay of strategies created a tense, dynamic contest.
By the end, exhaustion was evident across the table. Barrage demands attention at every moment, punishing hesitation or distraction. Yet the satisfaction of surviving its intensity, of seeing the web of dams and conduits spread across the board, was undeniable. Though I did not triumph, I left the session with renewed admiration for its design—a reminder that the heaviest games, though punishing, often yield the richest memories.
A Shift Toward Familiar Warmth
After the grueling marathon of Barrage, we collectively agreed to seek comfort in something familiar. The choice was Splendor, a game whose accessibility makes it nearly universal. Its simplicity—collecting gems to purchase cards, which in turn unlock further opportunities—belies the elegance of its arc.
We settled into the rhythm quickly, each of us competing for noble patronage while building efficient engines. Splendor’s beauty lies in its pace; turns are swift, actions clear, yet the tension builds steadily toward decisive moments. I found myself racing Matt for the same high-value card, only to be edged out at the last second. Jonathan secured his victory through steady accumulation, his methodical approach once again proving effective.
Despite its brevity, Splendor never feels trivial. Its accessibility makes it perfect for bridging gaps between heavier titles, while its elegance ensures it remains engaging even for seasoned players. That session, though modest in length, provided precisely the balance we needed to keep the day flowing smoothly.
The Surprise of a Hidden Gem
Late in the afternoon, we wandered into the play-and-win library again, curious to uncover something new. Among the rows of unfamiliar titles, one caught our attention—not for its reputation, but for its intriguing cover and compact size. The game’s name escapes me now, but its impact lingers.
What unfolded was a clever little design, blending resource management with spatial challenges. Teaching was quick, the mechanics intuitive, yet the depth revealed itself gradually. There was laughter at unexpected turns, groans at miscalculations, and a shared delight at discovering a design we had not anticipated.
This, to me, encapsulates one of the greatest joys of a convention: serendipity. It is the chance to stumble upon a game you might never have encountered otherwise, to share in its discovery with friends and strangers alike. Even if such games never become staples in our collections, their memory endures as part of the tapestry of the event.
Twilight with Terraforming Mars
As evening approached, we decided to close with one of the modern giants: Terraforming Mars. Few games capture the imagination quite like it, weaving together science, strategy, and storytelling as players transform a barren planet into a thriving ecosystem.
The board began empty, vast stretches of rust-colored tiles waiting to be filled with cities, greenery, and oceans. Each corporation shaped our strategies, guiding choices in pursuit of both efficiency and theme. My corporation leaned into plant production, striving to flood the planet with greenery. Jonathan pursued energy, converting it into heat to raise the global temperature. Matt focused on cities, weaving a network of urban centers, while Josh experimented across multiple tracks.
The session unfolded with a grandeur that matched the theme. Each milestone reached, each global parameter advanced, carried the weight of collective progress. Yet within that shared mission lay fierce competition for points, awards, and prestige. The balance between collaboration and rivalry is what gives Terraforming Mars its enduring appeal.
As the final turns approached, the board was transformed, a once-empty expanse now teeming with life and development. The sense of accomplishment was shared, even as Jonathan’s efficiency once again secured him the top score. More than victory, though, the memory that lingered was the story of the planet itself, a narrative written through our combined efforts.
A Quiet Evening Close
When the final scores were tallied and the board packed away, a quiet settled over the group. The day had been long, the games demanding, yet the satisfaction was profound. Sunday night at a convention carries a melancholy sweetness, knowing that the experience is drawing to a close. Yet there is also gratitude, a recognition of the richness contained in those fleeting days.
We lingered at the table, recounting highlights, laughing at missteps, and savoring the last moments together. Around us, other groups were doing the same, the hall alive with a chorus of voices sharing stories forged through play. The organizers moved steadily, preparing for the end, yet the atmosphere remained warm, as though the convention itself resisted letting go.
Walking back to the hotel, I carried with me a deep appreciation for the weekend’s breadth. From the quiet elegance of The Castles of Burgundy to the epic sweep of Terraforming Mars, from familiar staples to hidden gems, the day had encapsulated everything that makes Gaming Hoopla unique. It was not merely about the games themselves, but about the stories they wove, the connections they strengthened, and the memories they left behind.
A Morning Wrapped in Stillness
The last morning of the event began with an unfamiliar quiet. The bustling noise of earlier days had softened, replaced by the subdued hum of players packing bags and rolling suitcases across the lobby. The final day always carries with it an air of transition, where the exhilaration of play collides with the inevitability of departure.
My group gathered later than usual, each of us slower to rise, yet unwilling to let the weekend slip away without one more adventure. The room was not as crowded as before, but those who remained shared an unspoken determination: to make these last sessions meaningful, even if exhaustion tugged at the edges.
A Return to Simplicity with Azul
Our first game of the day was Azul, a colorful and deceptively strategic puzzle that never fails to attract attention. Its tactile tiles clink pleasantly as players draft patterns, and its rules are simple enough to draw in both veterans and newcomers alike.
At the table, fatigue seemed to fade as the vibrant mosaics began to take shape. I found myself leaning into symmetry, arranging neat rows that pleased the eye as much as the score track. Matt leaned toward efficiency, while Jonathan sought high-value placements, taking risks that occasionally left him with penalties. Josh, meanwhile, played with a casual joy, more focused on the artistry of his board than victory.
The beauty of Azul lies not only in its gameplay but in its meditative quality. It requires attention, yet it soothes rather than overwhelms. As we placed the last tiles and admired the patterns, there was a sense of serenity, as though the game had gifted us a calm beginning to what could otherwise have felt like a rushed farewell.
The Weight of Choices in Brass: Birmingham
After the gentleness of Azul, we turned toward something far more demanding: Brass: Birmingham. The shift in tone was immediate. Gone were the soothing tiles and colorful patterns, replaced by an industrial map of canals, coal, and iron. This was a game of fierce competition, where every decision carried economic weight and missteps could be devastating.
From the outset, the intensity gripped the table. I opened with an aggressive expansion of breweries, hoping to fuel my later ventures with reliable income. Jonathan once again demonstrated foresight, carefully linking networks to maximize his influence. Matt leaned heavily on manufacturing, while Josh experimented with railroads, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of rapid growth.
The Tension of the Second Era
What struck me during this play was the way the game demands adaptability. Strategies that seem promising early can unravel under pressure, forcing players to pivot constantly. I misjudged the timing of a critical connection, leaving me scrambling for resources, while Jonathan capitalized on my mistake with surgical precision.
By the time the second era began, the board was a sprawl of canals and railroads, every space contested, every move heavy with consequence. The map felt alive, transformed by our collective ambition, and the sense of rivalry was sharper than ever.
When final scores were tallied, exhaustion mingled with awe. Brass: Birmingham does not let players coast; it challenges them relentlessly, and in doing so, it creates experiences that linger long after the pieces are packed away.
Sharing Laughter with Just One
To counterbalance the mental strain, we chose something lighthearted next: Just One. This cooperative word game thrives on creativity and humor, and within moments, the table was filled with laughter.
The premise is simple: one player tries to guess a word while others provide one-word clues. Identical clues are eliminated, leaving the guesser with a set of often disjointed hints. The magic lies in the tension between obviousness and obscurity, as players attempt to be unique without straying too far from helpfulness.
One round left me guessing the word “volcano” with clues that included “eruption,” “lava,” and, unexpectedly, “island.” Another devolved into laughter when half the group wrote down variations of the same clue, leaving me with only a single cryptic word to interpret.
The session was brief, yet its levity was invaluable. In a weekend dominated by heavy, strategic experiences, Just One reminded us of the power of simplicity, of shared humor, and of the way games can create bonds through laughter as much as through competition.
Rediscovering Depth with Concordia
Later that afternoon, we decided to revisit a title that often emerges in discussions of elegance and longevity: Concordia. Its Roman trading theme might seem dry at first glance, but beneath the surface lies a system of extraordinary refinement, where every card played echoes across multiple turns.
We spread out the map, shuffled the decks, and soon the game’s rhythm was underway. Each of us pursued different paths—Jonathan leaned into colonists, expanding rapidly, while Matt hoarded resources to fuel late-game scoring. I focused on card acquisition, hoping to shape my deck for efficiency, while Josh experimented with multiple strategies at once.
Timing and Subtle Rivalries
What makes Concordia remarkable is the way it rewards foresight without overwhelming players. There is no hidden information, no dice to sway fate—only the careful balancing of opportunities. The tension emerges not from uncertainty but from timing, from seizing the right moment to act before others can.
As the final rounds played out, I realized how often Concordia surprises me. Despite its straightforward mechanics, no two games ever feel the same. This session, though Jonathan edged ahead once more, left us all satisfied, reminded of why the game continues to hold such enduring respect in the community.
Wandering the Convention One Last Time
With only a few hours remaining, we decided to walk the halls once more. The vendors were offering last-minute deals, boxes stacked high, and banners slowly being dismantled. Attendees drifted between tables, some carrying bags filled with new treasures, others saying goodbyes.
I paused at one booth where a small publisher showcased prototypes, eager for feedback. Their enthusiasm was infectious, a reminder that behind every polished release lies years of passion, testing, and iteration. Elsewhere, I saw children teaching parents the rules to games they had just learned, their excitement palpable.
The convention floor was no longer about discovery but about reflection. It was a chance to soak in the atmosphere one last time, to appreciate the tapestry of voices, dice rolls, and shuffling cards that had defined the weekend.
The Farewell Game: Codenames
Before parting ways, we sat down for one final game together: Codenames. Its brilliance lies in its accessibility and the unique challenge it presents—using single words to bridge connections across seemingly unrelated terms.
The table was split into teams, and the tension quickly mounted as clues were given and guesses debated. I remember offering “Arctic” to connect “penguin” and “ice,” only to watch in horror as my team guessed “cold” instead, narrowly avoiding the assassin word. Jonathan, of course, proved skilled at crafting subtle hints, while Josh leaned into playful creativity that sometimes led us astray.
Small Victories and Shared Groans
The match was filled with groans, laughter, and triumphant moments of insight. It was the perfect closer—not heavy, not exhausting, but deeply social, capturing the joy of communication and interpretation. As we packed away the cards, there was a collective recognition that the weekend’s journey had reached its natural end.
A Quiet Ride Home
When the final goodbyes were exchanged and the convention center faded into the distance, silence settled in during the drive home. The energy that had sustained us for days finally gave way to weariness. Yet beneath the fatigue was contentment, the kind that comes only from shared experiences, from hours of immersion in worlds crafted by cardboard and imagination.
Looking out the window, I thought about the variety of games we had played, from the heavy industrial sprawl of Brass: Birmingham to the lighthearted silliness of Just One, from the timeless elegance of Concordia to the vibrant puzzles of Azul. Each had left its mark, not just as a pastime, but as a story, a memory, a thread woven into the larger fabric of the weekend.
Reflections on Connection
As the road stretched on, I realized that the convention was never solely about the games themselves. It was about connection—about the friendships renewed, the strangers briefly united at tables, and the fleeting community that springs to life in these gatherings. That truth lingered long after the final pieces were packed away, and it remains what I carry with me whenever the last game ends.
Conclusion
As the memories of the weekend settle into the quiet of ordinary days, what endures is not a tally of wins and losses but the atmosphere those games created. The tables became more than wooden surfaces scattered with boards and tokens; they became stages for laughter, tension, discovery, and connection. Each game—whether sprawling and intricate or small and whimsical—offered a lens into how people interact, negotiate, and share stories.
The rhythm of the convention mirrored the arc of a well-crafted narrative: the anticipation of opening day, the crescendo of long nights filled with challenging titles, the quiet pauses of Sunday, and the bittersweet ending where farewells carried as much weight as final scores. Within that rhythm, friendships were deepened, new acquaintances were welcomed, and countless stories were written in the language of dice rolls, card flips, and carefully plotted moves.
What remains most powerful is the reminder that games are not solitary objects; they are living experiences shaped by those who gather around them. The convention ended, but the resonance lingers in memory—proof that these fleeting moments of shared imagination and strategy can outlast the event itself, leaving behind a tapestry of stories worth returning to again and again.