When one begins to explore the idea behind a game such as Mine Deeper, the first striking quality is how a very simple mechanical action is expanded into something that feels both dramatic and emotionally engaging. The action itself is nothing more than pushing part of a wall and observing the outcome, yet from that small interaction arises tension, deduction, laughter, and the thrill of uncertainty. This foundation did not appear overnight. It grew from Jonathan Lee’s personal life as both a parent and a designer, inspired by his children’s curiosity, his admiration for adventurous stories, and his desire to create something that balanced accessibility with depth.
The foundation for the game appeared in the designer’s home life. Raising two young boys while still caring for an infant, he naturally found himself in daily contact with family-oriented entertainment. His shelves were filled with well-known board games, and it was inevitable that his children would gravitate toward them. Children often see these boxes not as products for adults but as invitations to worlds of play. They quickly began to engage with age-appropriate titles and, much to his delight, were able to match him in competitive games such as Carcassonne or Ticket to Ride. These shared experiences highlighted both the strengths and limitations of existing family games. While it is enjoyable to join children in their chosen titles, younger players typically demand repetition, and adults can quickly feel fatigued if the challenge is absent. This tension led him to consider whether a new type of family-oriented experience could exist, one that would keep children engaged while still providing adults with meaningful choices.
At the heart of his initial thoughts lay a question: what kind of play pattern could captivate very young players without alienating older participants? The first inspiration came not from abstract mechanics but from an image rooted in adventure cinema. The designer recalled scenes of exploration and peril, especially the iconic moment from Indiana Jones where a giant boulder tumbles behind the protagonist. That scene conveyed the essence of immediate danger combined with the thrill of escape. Translating that feeling into a tabletop setting required a structure that allowed suspense to be generated through simple interactions. The result was the concept of a wall standing between two players, filled with marbles or gems that might at any moment come tumbling down. The auditory feedback of clattering marbles, the visual of shifting stones, and the uncertainty of what might be revealed became the thematic soul of the project.
Early sketches and notes were drawn casually on a mobile phone. At this stage the concept was called “Push Push,” an intuitive name that reflected the core activity. The rules were intentionally pared down to their barest essence: select a part of the wall, push it, then observe which marble falls. In its rawest form, this required almost no explanation, making it ideal for children who could jump into play without a lengthy tutorial. Yet even at this early point, the experience was more than random action. Because each push altered the state of the wall, there was an emerging layer of memory and anticipation. A player had to remember which areas had already been manipulated, and every subsequent push created a puzzle for both players about what might lie behind the wall. Thus, while the activity seemed simple, the psychological engagement was deeper.
The initial prototype became an alpha version crafted for the designer’s children. Built around a four-by-five grid, it used marbles of different colors to represent treasures or traps. Players each received a number of neutral marbles, along with a small set of marbles in their own color and one special rainbow marble. The victory condition was equally straightforward: drop all of the opponent’s colored marbles. Despite being presented as a children’s diversion, this version already contained traces of hidden information, bluffing, and risk assessment. Placement of gems could follow predictable patterns or deceptive ones, allowing a degree of psychological warfare even among very young players.
An additional twist was added through the rainbow marble. If this piece fell, it allowed players to return previously dropped marbles to the wall, essentially resetting part of the game state and injecting new uncertainty. This mechanic was especially useful in a family setting, as it created swings of fortune that kept games lively and prevented one-sided outcomes from ending prematurely. While adults might perceive this as adding chaos, for children it created opportunities for sudden comebacks, increasing their sense of agency and excitement. The designer’s own children embraced the alpha version with enthusiasm, though the older sibling eventually expressed frustration at outcomes that seemed to rely too heavily on chance. This feedback would become crucial in shaping later iterations.
From this foundation emerged the broader conceptual identity of Mine Deeper. It was a treasure-hunt-like experience where players could hide valuables while trying to uncover those of their opponent. The joy was not just in discovery but also in the ability to secretly arrange the hidden elements each game. This act of placement allowed players to express creativity and cunning, echoing the childhood thrill of hiding trinkets during a game of treasure hunt. For the designer, it rekindled his own youthful memories of burying secrets for others to find, but now he could share that feeling with his family through a structured tabletop format.
The game began to evolve beyond being a purely luck-driven spectacle.
The Roots of an Idea and the Joy of Falling Gems
The story of Mine Deeper begins not in a professional design studio but in the lively, sometimes chaotic setting of a family home. Jonathan Lee, its creator, worked as a computer programmer in Korea, but in his daily life he was also the father of three children. Two of them were already at an age where they were fascinated by games, while the youngest was still an infant. The shelves of the Lee household were lined with colorful board game boxes, each promising new worlds of adventure, strategy, and discovery. Inevitably, the children gravitated toward those boxes, curious about what treasures they contained.
For Jonathan Lee, this was a gift and a challenge. On the one hand, it was immensely satisfying to share his passion with his children, watching them learn the flow of rules and pick up the joy of friendly competition. On the other hand, children have a way of locking onto a favorite game and wanting to play it endlessly. For a parent, that repetition could be exhausting, especially if the game did not offer enough complexity to stay fresh. Adults crave variety, subtlety, and evolving strategies, while children thrive on repetition, familiarity, and tactile fun. The key question became: could there be a single game that would appeal to both? Something that a six-year-old could play without constant guidance but that a grown-up could also enjoy, rather than merely endure?
It was this puzzle that led Jonathan Lee to his first sparks of inspiration. The trigger came not from another board game but from film. Like many who grew up in the era of adventure blockbusters, he had long admired the scenes in Indiana Jones films where danger lurks in ancient ruins. One moment in particular stood out: the chase in which a giant boulder rolls behind the fleeing archaeologist, threatening to crush him. That image was burned into his imagination, not because of complicated choreography but because of its directness. A stone in motion carried all the drama and excitement needed. Translating that to a tabletop, Jonathan Lee wondered: what if a game could create a similar sense of suspense every turn? What if each move a player made carried the possibility of a boulder—or in this case, a marble—coming loose?
That idea became the heart of Mine Deeper. He envisioned a wall dividing two players, each side concealing hidden gems. On a player’s turn, they would push against one square of the wall, and somewhere behind it, a marble would shift and tumble out. The sound of marbles clattering into a tray became not just a side effect but the central joy of the design. Plink, plunk, plink—the music of chance, suspense, and discovery. Unlike many games that rely purely on cards or printed symbols, this one would be alive with sound and motion, drawing children and adults alike into its spell.
From the beginning, simplicity was the guiding principle. The rules distilled themselves naturally from the components: push a square, see what falls, then react. The beauty of this was that players barely needed an explanation. Even without being told, most could look at the setup and intuitively grasp what to do. This was essential for younger audiences, whose patience for instruction is often limited. At the same time, simplicity does not mean triviality. Each push altered the state of the wall, creating a memory challenge. Players had to remember which areas had been disturbed already, and over time they began to make deductions about where treasures might lie.
Jonathan Lee gave the early prototype a playful working name: “Push Push.” This title captured the physicality of the mechanic while keeping the idea accessible and lighthearted. To bring it to life, he used a grid to hold marbles, creating a wall that could be manipulated from either side. The prototype was not elaborate or polished, but it was functional, and most importantly, it was fun. His children became eager playtesters, demanding game after game, providing immediate feedback through their excitement and frustration.
The alpha version was built around a four-by-five grid. Each player received fourteen white marbles that served as decoys, five marbles of their own color representing treasures, and one special rainbow marble. The win condition was simple: if all of your opponent’s colored marbles fell, you won. The rainbow marble provided an additional twist. Whenever it dropped, the player could take marbles that had already fallen and place them back onto the wall. This mechanic prevented the game from becoming purely linear, injecting reversals and prolonging suspense.
For children, this was magical. The rainbow marble especially delighted them, as it created sudden shifts in fortune. They loved the sound of gems tumbling, the tactile action of pushing the wall, and the secret setup where they could decide where to hide their treasures. For Jonathan Lee, this mirrored the treasure hunts of his own childhood, when hiding objects for others to find was as much fun as discovering them. Mine Deeper gave him back that experience, now shared with his children. Yet even as the game provided endless laughter, it also exposed its first cracks. The older of his sons, proud of his ability to think strategically, soon voiced dissatisfaction. He felt that the outcome often hinged too heavily on luck. He struggled to understand how, despite being the “smarter” player, he could lose to his younger brother. This feedback revealed a deeper truth about design: while pure chance may delight young children, it risks frustrating older ones. For a game to truly sustain replayability across ages, it must find a balance between randomness and strategy. Still, the alpha version had already demonstrated something important. Even within its seemingly luck-driven framework, players began to invent tactics. They experimented with placing colored marbles in rows, clustering them together, or scattering them unpredictably. They discovered the art of bluffing, setting traps through deceptive placement. They learned to read each other’s psychology, anticipating moves and trying to outguess intentions. The game encouraged memory and deduction, even if only subtly at this stage.
For Jonathan Lee, this revealed that Mine Deeper was more than a children’s distraction. It had the potential to become a family game where both children and adults could find joy, albeit for different reasons. Children reveled in the noise and the tactile fun of falling marbles, while adults could appreciate the underlying mind games and the suspense of hidden information. It was a bridge across generations, something that could keep everyone at the table engaged.
The design philosophy of this alpha stage can be summed up in one principle: rules should emerge naturally from components. The wall, the marbles, and the tray did most of the work. The act of pushing was self-explanatory, the consequences immediate, and the goals clear. There was no need to impose artificial layers of restriction. The objects themselves created the drama. This elegance is often what separates lasting designs from forgettable ones.
As the family continued to playtest, Jonathan Lee realized that he had stumbled upon something special. The game combined the thrill of hidden treasures with the tactile excitement of physical play. It evoked childhood memories of treasure hunts while also offering psychological layers for adults. Most importantly, it created laughter and suspense every time it hit the table. The alpha version might have been imperfect, leaning too much on luck, but it had already captured the essence of what Mine Deeper would become.
The next step would be to refine the concept, addressing the critique of his older son and introducing mechanics that rewarded deduction and intelligence more directly. That path would lead to the creation of the beta version, inspired by the logic puzzles of digital classics like Minesweeper. But before that transformation, the alpha stage left behind a crucial legacy: proof that the core mechanic was not only fun but deeply engaging, capable of holding children and adults alike in its spell.
The roots of Mine Deeper were thus firmly planted in the soil of family life, nourished by the laughter of children and the curiosity of a designer. From the plink and plunk of falling marbles to the thrill of hiding gems, it showed how a simple idea could blossom into something enduring. The story of its growth would continue, with new mechanics, prototypes, and refinements, but the heart of the game was already beating strongly in those first playful experiments.
The Turn Toward Strategy and the Birth of the Beta Version
As satisfying as the first version of the game had been, Jonathan Lee could not ignore his older son’s complaint. Luck had too much sway. For a six-year-old, the tumbling of marbles was pure magic, but for an older child, especially one who prided himself on logical thinking, it became frustrating when outcomes hinged on randomness rather than clever play. This feedback was valuable. It was not the kind of detached critique that might come from an adult playtester but the honest, emotional reaction of someone who cared deeply about winning and losing. In that sense, it cut to the heart of what Jonathan Lee needed to solve: how to preserve the excitement of falling marbles while introducing a system that rewarded deduction, memory, and strategy.
He began looking for ways to inject hints into the game. The wall already offered a hidden landscape, but perhaps players could be given clues about what lay behind it. This line of thought led him directly to an old companion from his computer days: Minesweeper. For anyone who had spent time with a personal computer in the 1990s or early 2000s, Minesweeper was more than a diversion. It was a puzzle that demanded patience, logic, and courage. Each click revealed either empty ground, a number indicating nearby mines, or the sudden end of the game. The tension lay in balancing deduction with risk-taking, slowly building a picture of the hidden field.
Jonathan Lee saw a clear parallel. What if some marbles could function like the numbers in Minesweeper, providing information about where treasures were hidden? Instead of guessing blindly, players could use logic to narrow down possibilities. This would transform Mine Deeper from a largely chance-based spectacle into a battle of wits.
To implement this, he introduced two types of clue marbles. Yellow marbles indicated that one treasure marble was adjacent. Black marbles indicated that two were adjacent. By adjacency, he meant the immediately neighboring spaces around the clue marble. A key restriction was added: yellow and black marbles would not give hints to multiple treasures at once, keeping the logic from becoming overwhelmingly complex. With these new elements, the game gained an entirely new character.The transformation was dramatic. Where the alpha version had been straightforward and noisy, the beta version became more cerebral. Each push still carried the satisfying plunk of a marble falling, but now players could begin to map out where their opponent’s treasures might be. The game rewarded careful observation, memory, and deduction. Instead of hoping for luck, players leaned forward, furrowed their brows, and debated with themselves before choosing which part of the wall to press. The mood around the table shifted. Laughter still erupted at unexpected tumbles, but now it was mixed with moments of tense silence, the kind of silence found in puzzle-solving rather than in children’s games. Jonathan Lee recognized that he had succeeded in answering his older son’s challenge. The beta version was no longer a game that could be dismissed as pure luck. It had grown teeth. Adults who tried it found themselves genuinely engaged, searching for patterns and second-guessing their opponent’s placement. Children a bit older than preschool age could begin to grasp the logic, though very young ones still struggled. The design had matured, but with that maturity came increased difficulty.
The balance between accessibility and depth is one of the central struggles in family game design. A game that is too simple may fail to hold attention after a few plays, while a game that is too complex may alienate younger participants. Jonathan Lee discovered this tension firsthand. His younger son, who had happily played the alpha version, now found himself confused by the hints. The yellow and black marbles made sense to his older brother, but to him they were just extra pieces without obvious meaning. The challenge became clear: how to make the game strategic enough for older players while still preserving the childlike delight that had fueled its birth.
Playtesting became the crucible in which these ideas were tested. Family sessions provided constant feedback. Every sigh of frustration, every burst of laughter, every argument about fairness became data for refining the rules. Jonathan Lee noticed that when the younger child struggled, it was not because he lacked enthusiasm but because the rules demanded cognitive leaps beyond his age. The alpha version remained perfectly suited for such situations, offering a fallback mode that stripped away complexity while keeping the spectacle intact. The beta version, on the other hand, offered a deeper experience for those ready to embrace it. In this sense, Mine Deeper began to resemble a layered design—one that could be adjusted to suit different audiences by choosing which rule set to employ.
The thematic overlay also began to evolve during this period. The alpha version had been more abstract, defined by colored marbles without any particular narrative. With the beta version, Jonathan Lee began imagining a mining adventure. Treasures hidden within rock, clues left by the earth itself, and the thrill of digging deeper all provided a natural fit for the mechanics. The mining theme gave context to the clues: yellow marbles could be seen as traces of treasure, black marbles as signs of greater deposits nearby. It added flavor without complicating the rules, helping players imagine themselves not just pushing a wall but excavating secrets.
This stage also marked the moment when Jonathan Lee began to seriously consider the possibility of publication. Up to this point, Mine Deeper had been a family project, born of evenings and weekends spent tinkering with prototypes. But the beta version, with its balance of tactile play and deductive challenge, seemed to have broader potential. He wondered whether it might resonate with a wider audience beyond his household.
Encouraged by the positive reactions of family and friends, he prepared a prototype to send to a publisher. The company he approached was Korea Boardgames, a well-known publisher in his home country. He packaged the prototype, along with an explanation of the rules and the philosophy behind the design, and sent it off. It was a moment of both hope and vulnerability. Designers often speak of the strange mixture of excitement and anxiety that accompanies sharing a prototype with professionals. On one hand, it is the chance to see one’s idea recognized and nurtured. On the other, it is an invitation to critique, rejection, or radical change.
The response that came back was heartening. Korea Boardgames recognized the promise of Mine Deeper. They saw the potential in its simplicity, the cleverness of its deduction, and the accessibility of its tactile core. They were intrigued enough to take it seriously, offering feedback and suggestions for further refinement. For Jonathan Lee, this was a turning point. His private family project had crossed into the realm of professional development.
As the game entered deeper playtesting under the publisher’s guidance, further questions arose. How large should the wall be? What kinds of setup aids would help children play independently? Should the game include tools to help players remember which gems had already fallen? Each of these questions reflected the central challenge of transforming a clever prototype into a polished, market-ready product. It was no longer only about mechanics; it was about usability, accessibility, and presentation.
Looking back, the beta version can be seen as the fulcrum of the entire design journey. It retained the joyful essence of falling marbles while addressing the need for strategy and deduction. It demonstrated that the game could appeal not only to children but also to adults who craved a mental challenge. It provided the thematic groundwork for the mining adventure that would eventually define the final version. And most importantly, it caught the attention of a publisher, ensuring that Mine Deeper would not remain just a family pastime but would have the chance to reach tables around the world.
The story of this stage is not just about mechanics but about growth. It is about a father listening to his children, recognizing the importance of their feedback, and daring to reshape his design to honor their perspectives. It is about rediscovering an old digital puzzle and reimagining it in physical form. It is about moving from the playful chaos of luck to the measured satisfaction of logic, without losing the tactile magic that had inspired the project from the start.
In every push of the wall and every clatter of marbles, the beta version embodied the principle that games thrive on tension—the tension between knowledge and uncertainty, strategy and chance, childlike wonder and adult calculation. Mine Deeper had taken its first true steps toward maturity, and its journey was far from over. The challenges of production, refinement, and broader playtesting still lay ahead, but the foundation was solid. The thrill of falling gems had now been joined by the thrill of deduction, and together they promised a game with lasting appeal.
Building the Prototype and the Struggles of Creation
For every board game that finds its way into the hands of players, there is an untold story about its physical birth. Ideas may begin in the mind, scribbled into notebooks or typed into digital files, but at some point they must take shape in the real world. A game is not just rules; it is cardboard, plastic, wood, or paper. It is something to be touched, moved, and manipulated. For Jonathan Lee, Mine Deeper was always going to be a game defined by its physicality. The central mechanic was not a card drawn or a token placed but a push against a wall, a marble sliding, and a stone falling. That meant the quality of the components mattered, even at the earliest stages.
Like many aspiring designers, Jonathan Lee began with the most basic tools available: paper, scissors, pens, and tape. These are the building blocks of countless prototypes, flexible enough to test concepts quickly and cheaply. With these, he could map out grids, represent marbles with placeholders, and sketch out possible wall structures. Yet very quickly he realized that paper mock-ups would not be sufficient. The whole charm of Mine Deeper lay in the sound and feel of the marbles, the tension of the wall, and the spectacle of gems tumbling down. To achieve that, he needed more than flat pieces of paper; he needed a three-dimensional object that could stand up to repeated play.
It was at this stage that 3D printing entered the picture. In recent years, hobbyists and designers had gained access to technologies that once belonged only to industrial settings. Printers that could shape plastic layer by layer allowed individuals to create custom parts in their own homes or through local services. For Jonathan Lee, this offered a way to bring his vision to life with precision. Each square of the wall could be printed to the exact dimensions needed, ensuring consistency. The marbles would roll as intended, and the wall would hold together securely.
The alpha version had been produced with fairly simple 3D dotting tools, but when it came time to create the beta version, Jonathan Lee realized he needed something sturdier. He commissioned modeling work to improve the design, refining the dimensions and adjusting for functionality. At first, this seemed straightforward. In practice, it became a journey of trial and error.
One of the first problems he encountered was friction. The walls, when printed, fit together so tightly that they refused to move. Players could not push the squares as intended because the tolerances were too exact. To solve this, he adjusted the dimensions to create a looser fit. That solved the problem of movement, but it introduced a new one: when the walls became too thin, they lost stability and began to break. Worse still, some components began to shift unpredictably, moving left and right in ways that undermined the intended play.
Each adjustment created a ripple effect, solving one issue while creating another. At times, the process felt like a puzzle in itself, with each piece of the prototype demanding attention. Jonathan Lee admitted that much of the struggle came from his own limited understanding of 3D printing at the time. It was a technology he admired but had not mastered, and learning its quirks became part of the design process. Print orientation, material choice, and wall thickness all played roles that were easy to underestimate.
The expenses mounted as well. Printing multiple prototypes was not cheap, especially when parts had to be discarded and reprinted. Each experiment consumed both money and time, stretching the patience of the designer. Yet in hindsight, Jonathan Lee described the process as deeply satisfying. There was a special joy in holding the finished wall, watching the marbles tumble exactly as intended, and knowing that the hours of trial and error had paid off. For him, it was worth the effort.
He also discovered the psychological weight of prototyping. Unlike a digital design, where changes could be made instantly and tested on-screen, physical prototypes demanded commitment. Each decision about dimensions or materials locked him into a cycle of waiting for the printer, testing, and evaluating. The slowness of this process was both a burden and a gift. On the one hand, it delayed progress and introduced frustration. On the other hand, it forced him to think carefully about every change, to weigh costs against benefits, and to refine his vision deliberately.
The result was a set of prototypes that gradually improved in quality. By the time he reached what he considered a reliable beta model, the components were functional, consistent, and durable enough for extended playtesting. Friends and family could handle them without fear of breaking pieces, and the game finally looked like something more than a homemade toy. It had a presence, the kind of presence that made players curious even before the rules were explained.
There was also a symbolic dimension to the choice of 3D printing. Mine Deeper was a game about excavation, about digging through layers and revealing hidden treasures. The prototypes themselves were created by layering melted plastic, piece by piece, until an object emerged. The parallel was not lost on Jonathan Lee. Just as miners dig deeper to find gems, he dug deeper into the design process, uncovering the strengths and weaknesses of his own ideas.
The experience also taught him broader lessons about game design. He realized that the materials chosen for a game are not secondary but central to its identity. A rule that works beautifully on paper may collapse when translated into cardboard or plastic. Conversely, the feel of a component can inspire new rules, as had happened with the falling marbles in Mine Deeper. The tactile dimension was not an afterthought; it was the foundation. For this reason, he came to view prototyping not as a mere technical step but as a creative act equal to rule-writing.
Jonathan Lee began to share his experiences with other designers, advising them not to dismiss 3D printing as inaccessible. Though it carried challenges, it also offered opportunities. For games that rely on precise components, it can be invaluable. Even if the final product would eventually be mass-produced with molds or factory equipment, 3D printing provided a bridge between imagination and reality. It allowed a designer to experiment freely, to hold an idea in their hands, and to refine it before presenting it to a publisher.
At the same time, he cautioned that 3D printing was not a magic solution. It demanded patience, technical learning, and acceptance of failure. Walls might crack, parts might jam, and costs could escalate. Yet those struggles could also become part of the satisfaction. When a prototype finally worked, when the pieces fit smoothly and the marbles rolled just right, the sense of accomplishment was profound.
The process of prototyping also deepened his relationship with the game. Each time he corrected a flaw, he grew more attached to the design. Each failure made the successes sweeter. Mine Deeper became not just an idea but a tangible artifact, something shaped by his own hands and persistence. For Jonathan Lee, the journey of prototyping was inseparable from the journey of fatherhood and family life. His children saw the process unfold, watched new versions appear, and shared in the excitement of testing them. In that way, the prototypes became more than tools; they were part of a family story.
When Mine Deeper eventually reached the stage of serious publisher involvement, the work he had done on prototypes paid off. The clarity of his vision, expressed through physical components, made it easier for others to grasp the concept. Publishers and playtesters could see, touch, and hear what made the game unique. They did not need to imagine falling gems; they could experience them directly. That immediate understanding gave the game an advantage in crowded submission piles, where abstract descriptions often struggled to capture attention.
In the end, Jonathan Lee concluded that while prototyping with 3D printing was time-consuming and expensive, it was also indispensable for Mine Deeper. Without it, the game might have remained a paper concept, lacking the physical magic that defined it. With it, the game gained the solidity and presence it needed to move forward into publication.
The struggles of creation were not just technical obstacles; they were rites of passage. They taught patience, persistence, and the value of iteration. They reminded the designer that games are not only mental constructs but physical experiences. And they demonstrated that even in the age of digital convenience, the slow, messy work of building with hands and tools remains central to the craft.
Mine Deeper’s prototypes, with their walls and marbles and carefully printed parts, were stepping stones on a larger path. They represented the determination of a designer who believed that his idea deserved to live in the world, not just in his head. And they embodied the broader truth that every game, no matter how polished its final form, carries within it the scars and lessons of its early prototypes.
Building the Prototype and the Struggles of Creation
For every board game that finds its way into the hands of players, there is an untold story about its physical birth. Ideas may begin in the mind, scribbled into notebooks or typed into digital files, but at some point they must take shape in the real world. A game is not just rules; it is cardboard, plastic, wood, or paper. It is something to be touched, moved, and manipulated. For Jonathan Lee, Mine Deeper was always going to be a game defined by its physicality. The central mechanic was not a card drawn or a token placed but a push against a wall, a marble sliding, and a stone falling. That meant the quality of the components mattered, even at the earliest stages.
Like many aspiring designers, Jonathan Lee began with the most basic tools available: paper, scissors, pens, and tape. These are the building blocks of countless prototypes, flexible enough to test concepts quickly and cheaply. With these, he could map out grids, represent marbles with placeholders, and sketch out possible wall structures. Yet very quickly he realized that paper mock-ups would not be sufficient. The whole charm of Mine Deeper lay in the sound and feel of the marbles, the tension of the wall, and the spectacle of gems tumbling down. To achieve that, he needed more than flat pieces of paper; he needed a three-dimensional object that could stand up to repeated play.
It was at this stage that 3D printing entered the picture. In recent years, hobbyists and designers had gained access to technologies that once belonged only to industrial settings. Printers that could shape plastic layer by layer allowed individuals to create custom parts in their own homes or through local services. For Jonathan Lee, this offered a way to bring his vision to life with precision. Each square of the wall could be printed to the exact dimensions needed, ensuring consistency. The marbles would roll as intended, and the wall would hold together securely.
The alpha version had been produced with fairly simple 3D dotting tools, but when it came time to create the beta version, Jonathan Lee realized he needed something sturdier. He commissioned modeling work to improve the design, refining the dimensions and adjusting for functionality. At first, this seemed straightforward. In practice, it became a journey of trial and error.
One of the first problems he encountered was friction. The walls, when printed, fit together so tightly that they refused to move. Players could not push the squares as intended because the tolerances were too exact. To solve this, he adjusted the dimensions to create a looser fit. That solved the problem of movement, but it introduced a new one: when the walls became too thin, they lost stability and began to break. Worse still, some components began to shift unpredictably, moving left and right in ways that undermined the intended play.
Each adjustment created a ripple effect, solving one issue while creating another. At times, the process felt like a puzzle in itself, with each piece of the prototype demanding attention. Jonathan Lee admitted that much of the struggle came from his own limited understanding of 3D printing at the time. It was a technology he admired but had not mastered, and learning its quirks became part of the design process. Print orientation, material choice, and wall thickness all played roles that were easy to underestimate.
The expenses mounted as well. Printing multiple prototypes was not cheap, especially when parts had to be discarded and reprinted. Each experiment consumed both money and time, stretching the patience of the designer. Yet in hindsight, Jonathan Lee described the process as deeply satisfying. There was a special joy in holding the finished wall, watching the marbles tumble exactly as intended, and knowing that the hours of trial and error had paid off. For him, it was worth the effort.
He also discovered the psychological weight of prototyping. Unlike a digital design, where changes could be made instantly and tested on-screen, physical prototypes demanded commitment. Each decision about dimensions or materials locked him into a cycle of waiting for the printer, testing, and evaluating. The slowness of this process was both a burden and a gift. On the one hand, it delayed progress and introduced frustration. On the other hand, it forced him to think carefully about every change, to weigh costs against benefits, and to refine his vision deliberately.
The result was a set of prototypes that gradually improved in quality. By the time he reached what he considered a reliable beta model, the components were functional, consistent, and durable enough for extended playtesting. Friends and family could handle them without fear of breaking pieces, and the game finally looked like something more than a homemade toy. It had a presence, the kind of presence that made players curious even before the rules were explained.
There was also a symbolic dimension to the choice of 3D printing. Mine Deeper was a game about excavation, about digging through layers and revealing hidden treasures. The prototypes themselves were created by layering melted plastic, piece by piece, until an object emerged. The parallel was not lost on Jonathan Lee. Just as miners dig deeper to find gems, he dug deeper into the design process, uncovering the strengths and weaknesses of his own ideas.
The experience also taught him broader lessons about game design. He realized that the materials chosen for a game are not secondary but central to its identity. A rule that works beautifully on paper may collapse when translated into cardboard or plastic. Conversely, the feel of a component can inspire new rules, as had happened with the falling marbles in Mine Deeper. The tactile dimension was not an afterthought; it was the foundation. For this reason, he came to view prototyping not as a mere technical step but as a creative act equal to rule-writing.
Jonathan Lee began to share his experiences with other designers, advising them not to dismiss 3D printing as inaccessible. Though it carried challenges, it also offered opportunities. For games that rely on precise components, it can be invaluable. Even if the final product would eventually be mass-produced with molds or factory equipment, 3D printing provided a bridge between imagination and reality. It allowed a designer to experiment freely, to hold an idea in their hands, and to refine it before presenting it to a publisher.
At the same time, he cautioned that 3D printing was not a magic solution. It demanded patience, technical learning, and acceptance of failure. Walls might crack, parts might jam, and costs could escalate. Yet those struggles could also become part of the satisfaction. When a prototype finally worked, when the pieces fit smoothly and the marbles rolled just right, the sense of accomplishment was profound.
The process of prototyping also deepened his relationship with the game. Each time he corrected a flaw, he grew more attached to the design. Each failure made the successes sweeter. Mine Deeper became not just an idea but a tangible artifact, something shaped by his own hands and persistence. For Jonathan Lee, the journey of prototyping was inseparable from the journey of fatherhood and family life. His children saw the process unfold, watched new versions appear, and shared in the excitement of testing them. In that way, the prototypes became more than tools; they were part of a family story.
When Mine Deeper eventually reached the stage of serious publisher involvement, the work he had done on prototypes paid off. The clarity of his vision, expressed through physical components, made it easier for others to grasp the concept. Publishers and playtesters could see, touch, and hear what made the game unique. They did not need to imagine falling gems; they could experience them directly. That immediate understanding gave the game an advantage in crowded submission piles, where abstract descriptions often struggled to capture attention.
In the end, Jonathan Lee concluded that while prototyping with 3D printing was time-consuming and expensive, it was also indispensable for Mine Deeper. Without it, the game might have remained a paper concept, lacking the physical magic that defined it. With it, the game gained the solidity and presence it needed to move forward into publication.
The struggles of creation were not just technical obstacles; they were rites of passage. They taught patience, persistence, and the value of iteration. They reminded the designer that games are not only mental constructs but physical experiences. And they demonstrated that even in the age of digital convenience, the slow, messy work of building with hands and tools remains central to the craft.
Mine Deeper’s prototypes, with their walls and marbles and carefully printed parts, were stepping stones on a larger path. They represented the determination of a designer who believed that his idea deserved to live in the world, not just in his head. And they embodied the broader truth that every game, no matter how polished its final form, carries within it the scars and lessons of its early prototypes.
Conclusion
The journey of Mine Deeper is a reminder that creativity often begins at home, in small, ordinary moments, before it ever reaches the spotlight of publication. What started as Jonathan Lee’s attempt to make a game his children could enjoy blossomed into a full-fledged design that captured both the innocence of play and the complexity of strategy. Along the way, he discovered that the act of creating a game is itself a process of mining—digging through layers of ideas, testing prototypes, enduring setbacks, and refining through collaboration.
From the playful chaos of the alpha version, where laughter and hidden gems defined the experience, to the more thoughtful beta version, where deduction and strategy deepened the gameplay, the game evolved in parallel with its designer’s own understanding. The challenges of 3D printing and prototyping became a school of patience and problem-solving, teaching Jonathan Lee that good ideas must be made tangible, even when the process is slow and costly. And finally, through the partnership with a publisher, the design was honed into a polished, market-ready product, enriched with setup cards, expanded grids, and player boards that made the experience clearer and more accessible for everyone.
Yet beyond the mechanics, components, and production, the heart of Mine Deeper lies in its origin. It was never just about inventing a game; it was about building connections—between father and children, between imagination and reality, between the joy of play and the discipline of design. Every marble that falls, every gem revealed, carries within it echoes of those first family playtests, of trial and error, and of shared discovery.
In the end, Mine Deeper is more than a board game. It is proof that inspiration can come from anywhere, that persistence can transform small ideas into lasting creations, and that games have the power to bridge generations. Jonathan Lee did not simply create a product; he unearthed a treasure—one that invites others to laugh, to think, and to play together. And like the gems buried behind the walls in the game, the true reward lies not only in what is found at the end but in the joy of the digging itself.