Arriving at a major convention always carries a certain mixture of anticipation, nervous energy, and mild exhaustion from the logistics of simply getting there. For me, this year’s UK Games Expo began in much the same way as last year, with a decision to drive after work rather than attempt a crack-of-dawn start on Friday morning. That choice, though slightly draining after a long day, makes a world of difference once the event begins. By heading to Coventry the night before, I gave myself the luxury of walking into the exhibition halls as soon as doors opened at 9 a.m., without the lingering stress of early traffic or missed connections.
The journey itself was smoother than expected, thanks to avoiding the M1, which had been closed for much of the day. That detour, while slightly longer, gifted me a more scenic route and a chance to ease into the weekend ahead. The weather played its part too—clear skies and calm roads set the tone for an optimistic start. My car had been touch-and-go in the run-up to the expo, narrowly ready in time for the trip, but it made it. Even though I had a backup lift planned, the relief of independence was real.
Unlike last year, when I deposited only a single item at the bring-and-buy, I had far more to sell this time. That decision was partly driven by an attempt to trim my collection, aiming to keep the number of games under a hundred. My main shelving—a 4×4 Kallax unit—serves as both storage and a reality check, and when titles start spilling over, it’s time to act. Selling online hadn’t been as fruitful this year as in the past, particularly on local platforms, so the expo became the outlet. Carrying those heavier loads through the halls was a workout in itself, but I reminded myself that every box leaving my hands was space reclaimed at home.
A few items had already been pre-sold, which eased the burden slightly. One of the buyers was volunteering at the bring-and-buy desk, which made the handoff quick and easy. My friend, who had arrived earlier than me, had not only picked up both our tickets but also another friend’s, though that third companion was significantly delayed. The real challenge came when we realised he had twice the number of items I did and at least twice the size and weight. What followed was nearly ninety minutes of pushing boxes and shuffling bags through the longest queue I had ever seen at the event.
The line seemed unending, and the process of checking items in was painfully slow. Perhaps the organisers were constrained by the number of wall panels or the available footprint in the hall, but the bottleneck felt unnecessary. With more staff or better spacing, things could have moved faster. Still, there was a silver lining: waiting in the queue together gave us time to chat, and there’s something communal about being surrounded by hundreds of people all juggling cardboard treasures they hope to pass along.
By the time that ordeal ended, I was drained. I headed straight to my hotel, waiting for my roommate to arrive and let him in. That quiet pause was well deserved, though it came with a twist. While waiting, I took the opportunity to browse the bring-and-buy for myself, something I had never done in five years of attending. It turned out to be a decision that shaped the following day.
Friday morning began with another round of queuing—this time to enter the bring-and-buy as a customer rather than a seller. I had left my main bag with a friend, along with one game I still planned to sell, but the wait proved longer than I hoped. More than an hour standing in line, monitoring which items on the shelves vanished before I even reached the front, left me both restless and a little envious. A brand-new, shrink-wrapped copy of SETI for thirty pounds disappeared instantly. Another title, Evacuation, lasted a little longer before being snapped up just ahead of me.
The atmosphere in the queue was oddly subdued. Unlike the chatter and camaraderie of the previous night, few people around me seemed in the mood to talk, making it a more solitary experience. Adding to the discomfort was my lack of preparation: years ago, there had been a ban on bringing bags into the bring-and-buy, so I hadn’t thought to bring one. Now the rules allowed empty bags, which would have saved my back later.
Once inside, the space was exactly as chaotic as expected—rows upon rows of shelves, boxes crammed together, a jumble of prices and conditions. It was organised enough to function but overwhelming to navigate, especially when tasked with searching for games on behalf of friends. My luck initially faltered. One of the titles I wanted most, Resafa with its Essen promos, was snatched from the shelf right before my eyes. That disappointment was real, but it led to an unexpected discovery.
On the very same shelf, tucked away, was something I had almost given up hope of ever finding: a mint copy of Tea Garden. With a re-release scheduled soon, I had resigned myself to waiting, but seeing it there for only forty pounds was a shock. Without hesitation, I grabbed it, knowing I had stumbled across a gem. That alone made the hour-long queue worthwhile.
I didn’t stop there. I added a brand-new copy of Motor City, which felt like excellent value, and a fifteen-pound copy of Furnace—lightweight, compact, and easy on my already-strained arms. I hesitated over French Quarter, leaving it behind for now due to limited buzz, but left the area satisfied. For all the frustrations of queuing and missed opportunities, the thrill of finding that one treasure outweighed everything else.
Meeting back up with friends, I passed on the disappointing news that I hadn’t located any of their requests. Still, we shifted focus toward our own shopping goals. We wandered the aisles of the major retailers, hunting for SETI at a price below fifty pounds. Along the way, we stopped at Zatu’s stand, where my friend wanted to examine Kelp, a two-player asymmetric design. The demo setup looked good, though the staff weren’t fully prepared to explain the rules in depth. The brief overview suggested promise—distinct victory paths for shark and octopus, plenty of asymmetry, and strong component quality, though not quite as high as expected. In a market crowded with two-player titles, it stood out as one to watch.
Chaos Cards, a regular highlight at the expo, delivered as usual. Browsing their stand, I spotted a single copy of Minos: Dawn of the Bronze Age for thirty pounds, a price low enough to convince me to take the plunge. While there, I also asked about SETI and Endeavour: Deep Sea, hoping to check off most of my shopping list at once. To my relief, the staff offered a small deal for buying all three together, lightening my wallet but also my future shopping load. Arms aching, but bags fuller than I intended so early in the day, I knew I’d earned a break.
Lunch provided that pause. Sitting in the open gaming area, I ate while reorganising my new purchases and setting aside the one title I had brought to sell. A quick check confirmed that some of my bring-and-buy items had already sold, softening the financial blow of the morning. These small victories balanced out the sore shoulders.
With the afternoon ahead, the real exploration of the halls began. For me, this part of the expo is less about retail therapy and more about discovery—seeing upcoming titles, learning about new releases, and trying games that may not be available elsewhere. Each stand offers its own rhythm, from the bustling crowds around the big names to the quieter corners where smaller publishers show off hidden gems. Day 1 is always a balance between pacing yourself and soaking in as much as possible, and I knew I had only just begun.
UK Games Expo 2025
After lunch and a brief pause in the open gaming area, I felt recharged enough to dive back into the halls. The first stop was the Mindclash stand, always a crowd-drawer with their bold, complex titles and ambitious production values. I had hoped to spot Perseverance Episode 4 after Episode 3 had been teased last year, but instead the spotlight was on Revenant. This was one I had been curious about for months, so the timing seemed right to finally give it a go.
We sat down, prepared for a quick runthrough, only to learn that the demonstrator’s introduction would last forty minutes followed by a planned forty-five minutes of play. For some, that’s an ideal way to learn a heavy game—comprehensive, nothing skipped, every rule explained—but for me, the time commitment was too steep. With a meeting already booked in an hour, I couldn’t justify staying. I gave up my seat, and one of the others at the table made the same decision. That moment sparked an internal debate: what’s the best way to demo a game at a convention?
There are two schools of thought. One says you should be given the rules in full so you understand exactly how the mechanisms work and can make your own choices. The other says that a scripted demo, a sort of guided experience, is far more efficient. You skip the dense explanation, play a few turns that showcase the highlights, and leave with a taste rather than a complete meal. Personally, I lean toward the latter. Time at a convention is precious, and I would rather get through multiple short demos than invest two hours in one that may not even click with me. Still, I respect that others prefer the full teach, and the split opinion among my friends afterwards—one enjoying Revenant immensely, the other unimpressed—proved there is no universal answer.
Next up, I made my way to Thunderworks Games. I’ve always enjoyed chatting with them, and this year I had the chance to see Citizens of the Spark in person before it ships to backers. The real excitement, though, was hearing about their upcoming card project. Details are under wraps until its official reveal later this summer, but what I can say is that it looks gorgeous and sounds innovative. That conversation reinforced one of the joys of conventions: those glimpses behind the curtain, the chance to hear about projects months before they hit shelves.
From there I hurried to my scheduled meeting with Board & Dice, a publisher whose output has grown steadily more diverse in recent years. They were warm and open in conversation, explaining how their thematic focus has shifted away from ancient civilisations toward more European and Asian settings. I enjoyed hearing about their creative direction, as it shows a conscious effort to diversify not just gameplay but also the stories their games tell. We spoke briefly about a major Essen release designed by David Turczi, which will no doubt make my personal top ten list for the show once it’s fully announced. There was also time to discuss Tianxia, a title that had only just been revealed, which intrigued me with its mix of mechanisms and cultural inspiration. It’s moments like these—standing in a busy convention hall, notebook in hand, talking with passionate designers and publishers—that remind me why I love attending.
After the meeting, I drifted toward the Hachette stand. Their area is always lively, with a wide range of games spanning light family fare to heavier strategy titles. Among the demos, one caught my eye instantly: Kanal. If I’d known beforehand it would be here, it would have easily cracked my list of most anticipated titles. I waited for a few minutes to see if anyone else would join, then messaged my friends to come over. Two of us ended up trying it while another wandered off for his own meeting.
Kanal is a two-player-only game with a worker placement twist. Each round, the first player places three workers, the second places two, then roles alternate. Some spaces provide resources, tracked on a resource wheel reminiscent of Uwe Rosenberg’s Glass Road, while others allow you to construct buildings or lay routes such as canals, roads, paths, or railways. Each type has its own costs and restrictions, and buildings trigger effects either when fully surrounded or when bridges connect to them. As the game progresses, better buildings become available, raising both the cost and the potential reward.
Even with our abbreviated demo, I was impressed. It had the hallmarks of a streamlined Euro—quick turns, meaningful choices, and just enough crunch to reward forward planning. The resource wheel in particular created tension, forcing us to balance short-term needs against long-term efficiency. Replayability seemed high, with only half the deck used each game and multiple decks included in the box. Production-wise, it wasn’t perfect but still a big step up from its earlier versions, which had looked more like prototypes than finished products. After thirty minutes of play, I knew I’d found something special. If I had to give a rating from this brief taste, it would be a strong eight out of ten, with potential to climb higher.
The afternoon energy was in full swing by then, the hall buzzing with movement and chatter. One of my friends suggested we try Bomb Busters, recently nominated for a major award and generating plenty of hype. We only waited fifteen minutes before getting a seat. Our demo featured one of the earliest missions, a puzzle-like scenario where players declare and reveal numbered tiles in an attempt to defuse wires. The challenge lay in deduction, memory, and teamwork, but with the added tension of hidden red and yellow wires that spelled instant failure if chosen.
Our playthrough ended abruptly when the demonstrator himself picked the wrong tile, triggering a loss before we had much chance to progress. Even so, the experience gave me a flavour of the game. It felt light, cooperative, and slightly reminiscent of Hanabi, though with its own identity. The sealed tuck boxes full of additional missions suggested strong replayability, and I can see expansions easily following. For me, it was a fun diversion, one I’d happily play again but not something I’d rush to purchase. A provisional seven out of ten felt fair.
Later, I wandered to the CGE stand for a look at the upcoming expansion for SETI, one of my main purchases earlier in the day. The new content included additional alien species—five, according to the person I spoke with, though I later heard conflicting reports of three. Either way, the designs I glimpsed were exciting, with double-sided alien cards offering more depth and asymmetry. The expansion also adds ‘prelude’-style starting cards to accelerate the early game, cutting down on setup turns, and introduces asymmetric player powers that looked radically different from one another. As someone who had enjoyed the base game but wished for a little more variety, this expansion seemed like exactly what it needed.
By late afternoon, I was ready for something different. A friend suggested Molly House, a title I had only vaguely remembered from its crowdfunding campaign but never looked into deeply. The theme—running establishments and throwing parties in a historical setting—was unusual, and that alone intrigued me. The gameplay revolved around moving pawns, collecting cards, and hosting parties with poker-like hands to generate joy in the community. Beneath the lighthearted surface, though, was a tension: cards discarded during parties accumulated in an investigation deck, and at the end of each round, evidence could shut down houses if too much scrutiny fell upon them.
Our playthrough ended quickly, as we cooperated so effectively that we reached the joy threshold in just two rounds. Despite the shortened session, I found it engaging. The mix of tableau-building, set collection, and semi-cooperative tension worked surprisingly well. While we played it kindly, avoiding sabotage, I could imagine the game becoming far more cutthroat with a different group. For me, it landed around seven out of ten, with the potential to climb higher if explored further.
As the convention hall closed for the evening, we shifted into open gaming mode. After a long day of browsing, shopping, and demoing, it felt good to sit down in a quieter space with friends. We opted for a few lighter titles, starting with Yokai Septet in its team format. The rules hiccup we encountered extended the game longer than it should have, but I still appreciated its unusual blend of trick-taking and trick-avoidance mechanics. It’s rare for a card game to capture both impulses so cleanly. I wasn’t ready to rank it definitively, but the design impressed me enough to warrant more plays.
Dinner proved less satisfying. My usual post-expo stop at Subway had closed earlier than expected, leaving me to grab a gyros instead. It was tasty but a little overpriced, though hunger makes most food taste better. Back at the gaming tables, the mood turned toward something meatier, and my recent acquisition of Tea Garden became the natural choice.
This game, which had been my lucky find in the bring-and-buy, instantly justified my excitement. Over five fixed rounds, players manage tea plantations, harvesting, fermenting, and delivering leaves while using multi-purpose cards to drive actions. Each decision mattered, from the strength of the actions to the order in which cards were played, and the interplay between teapots, vessels, and bonus actions created cascading opportunities. Despite the apparent simplicity of components—mainly cards, leaves, and tokens—the strategy felt rich and multi-layered.
We played a full session, rules teach included, in under two hours. By the end, I was smitten. My friends were sceptical at first, particularly during the slow opening round, but as the engine-building potential revealed itself, they began to see why I valued it so highly. For me, it shot straight into my top three games of the previous year, even without a solo mode (something an upcoming expansion promises to fix). I rated it a nine out of ten, easily the highlight of my day.
As we packed up and prepared for rest, I reflected on the arc of the first full day. It had started with queues, both frustrating and rewarding, moved through a whirlwind of demos and discoveries, and ended with the satisfaction of playing a newly treasured title with friends. The expo still had two more days to go, and I knew there were bigger releases and deeper dives ahead. But for now, I went to bed tired, content, and eager for what Saturday would bring.
UK Games Expo 2025
I made a beeline for the bring-and-buy first, not because I expected another miracle like Tea Garden, but out of habit and curiosity. By then, much of the stock had rotated. Prices were creeping lower, as sellers adjusted tags to move their leftovers before the weekend ended. The shelves were thinner too, a little more haphazard, but that made the treasure hunt even more appealing. I spotted a few interesting titles—some older card-driven war games, a couple of out-of-print Euros—but nothing screamed “take me home.” With arms already sore from purchases on Friday, I resisted temptation. Sometimes the best decision at a convention is to walk away empty-handed.
Instead, I joined my friends near Hall 2, where smaller publishers had clustered together. These stands often hide the most pleasant surprises: clever designs without big marketing budgets, prototypes seeking attention, or reprints of obscure classics. One such surprise was Forest Shuffle: Dartmoor, the newest expansion to the card game that had dominated many tables in 2023 and 2024. The demo table was packed, but we lingered long enough to overhear the basics. Dartmoor adds grazing animals—ponies, cows, sheep—that interact with habitats in new ways, as well as a few rule tweaks that encourage long-term strategies. It didn’t reinvent the game, but it enriched it. My takeaway was that it will likely be a must-buy for fans, though not essential if you’d drifted from Forest Shuffle already.
From there, we drifted toward the capstone of my personal Saturday: a scheduled demo of an as-yet-unreleased heavy Euro. I won’t spoil its name here, as the publisher asked us to keep details quiet until Essen, but suffice to say it was one of those sprawling productions that screams “serious hobby game” from fifty paces. Thick cardboard, asymmetric player boards, trays filled with dozens of wooden tokens—the kind of setup that makes casual gamers recoil but makes veterans grin.
The teach was brisk—thankfully only fifteen minutes this time—before we launched into a sample round. Even from that brief slice, I could sense its depth. Action selection intertwined with engine-building, while timing was crucial: knowing when to trigger your tableau for efficiency, when to invest in multipliers, when to pass early. It had hints of classics like Gaia Project and Maracaibo but felt distinct enough to stand on its own. By the end of the demo, my head buzzed with possibilities. This was exactly the type of game I come to UKGE to discover—something too dense for a casual trial at home but perfectly suited to a convention test run.
Lunch that day became an adventure of its own. We had grown weary of overpriced convention food and decided to explore outside. A short walk led us to a pub just off-site, crammed with fellow attendees doing the same. The atmosphere there was fantastic: pint glasses clinking, rulebooks spread across tables, people playtesting purchases between bites of chips. It’s one of the underrated joys of a convention—the gaming doesn’t stop when you leave the hall. It spills into nearby cafés, bars, even hotel lobbies. That sense of shared community is palpable, reminding me that this hobby, for all its cardboard and tokens, is ultimately about people connecting.
Refuelled, I headed back for one of my most anticipated experiences: a full sit-down with Endeavour: Deep Sea. I had already bought a copy on Friday, trusting the pedigree of the original Endeavour, but I wanted to actually see it in play. The demo didn’t disappoint. Each turn, you choose from various specialist actions—diving deeper, cataloguing species, publishing research—and chain them into increasingly efficient combos. Thematic touches like conservation tracks and endangered species gave the game an emotional hook, while the crunchy Euro mechanics kept my brain happily engaged. By the end of our thirty-minute taster, I felt vindicated in my purchase. If Tea Garden was my personal gem of Day 1, then Deep Sea became the standout of Day 2.
Later that afternoon, I wandered toward the open playtest area, where prototypes and in-development designs were showcased. These tables are easy to overlook amid the noise of finished products, but I always make time for them. There’s something refreshing about sitting down with a designer who has hand-scribbled notes, laser-cut tokens, and the nervous enthusiasm of someone baring their creation to strangers. I tried a mid-weight card game about city planning, where streets and districts overlapped in puzzly grids. It wasn’t polished, but the potential was there. Offering feedback, I felt part of the process. Who knows—maybe in two years, I’ll see it as a finished product and remember those rough edges.
As Saturday wore on, the weight of the week began catching up. My bag bulged with purchases, my shoulders ached, and my voice felt hoarse from hours of talking over the din. Still, there was one more stop I couldn’t resist: the giant open gaming hall. Hundreds of tables stretched out, filled with players cracking open shrink wrap, diving into Kickstarter deliveries, or teaching old favourites. The air smelled faintly of cardboard, takeaway food, and excitement.
We joined a group game of Heat: Pedal to the Metal, one of the past year’s runaway hits, expanded with the new campaign content. It was the perfect antidote to heavy Euros and prototype demos—a slick, fast-paced race with just enough luck to create stories. I crashed spectacularly on the final lap, my car spinning out on a corner I misjudged, but the laughter around the table reminded me why these lighter games thrive at conventions. They’re accessible, they build instant camaraderie, and they’re easy to slot into a tired evening.
Dinner that night was simpler—back at the hotel, takeaway boxes balanced precariously beside piles of rulebooks and components. Between bites, we opened Furnace, one of my bargain finds from the bring-and-buy, and ran through a full play. The auction mechanism, where losing bids still grant resources, proved as sharp and elegant as I’d heard. For fifteen pounds, it felt like a steal.
Sunday morning arrived almost too quickly. The final day of a convention always feels bittersweet: there’s still plenty to see, but the looming end casts a shadow. Many publishers offer deals to clear stock, tempting attendees with discounts that test the limits of luggage space. I told myself I was finished buying… only to cave when I spotted a discounted expansion for a game I owned at home. Old habits die hard.
The rest of Sunday I treated more leisurely. Rather than chasing demos, I strolled the halls, soaking in the atmosphere. I revisited stands I had rushed past earlier, chatting with designers I hadn’t had time for on Friday. One conversation stood out with a small indie publisher showcasing a cooperative storytelling game. They spoke passionately about the narrative roots of the design, how they wanted players not just to win or lose but to feel immersed in a shared tale. That passion reminded me of my own first steps into the hobby, when every game felt like a doorway to another world.
By mid-afternoon, we regrouped for one final play in the open gaming area: a farewell session of Motor City. Compact, puzzly, and quick, it was the perfect closing note—enough crunch to stay engaging, but not so heavy that our tired brains faltered. We laughed at our misplays, tallied scores, and began that inevitable conversation of the post-expo ranking: which games had been worth the hype, which purchases we regretted, and which surprises we’d carry home in our memories.
As the halls emptied and vendors packed up, I felt the familiar mix of satisfaction and wistfulness. UK Games Expo 2025 had delivered everything I wanted—queues, chaos, bargains, demos, unexpected treasures, and most of all, shared experiences with friends. My shelves at home might groan under the new arrivals, but my mind was full of stories, impressions, and the kind of joy that only three days immersed in this hobby can bring.
Driving home, tired but content, I reflected on the arc of the weekend. Day 0 had been about logistics, Day 1 about discovery, Day 2 about depth, and Day 3 about closure. Each part had its own rhythm, its own highlights, its own frustrations. Together, they formed a narrative I’ll treasure long after the cardboard has settled onto my shelves. And though I tell myself every year that I don’t need to return, I know the truth: when the next expo rolls around, I’ll be back.
Final Thoughts
Every convention leaves its own particular imprint, and UK Games Expo 2025 was no different. Looking back on the three days as a whole, I find myself sorting through a jumble of impressions: the thrill of discovery, the frustrations of queuing, the weight of purchases carried too far, and the laughter of late-night games shared with friends. What stands out most, however, are not individual titles or purchases but the patterns that emerged—trends in the hobby, shifts in how conventions themselves operate, and the personal lessons I’ll carry into future events.
The Bring-and-Buy Paradox
The bring-and-buy is always one of the Expo’s defining features, and this year it underscored both its strengths and its weaknesses. On the one hand, it remains unmatched as a clearinghouse for out-of-print titles and bargains. Finding a mint copy of Tea Garden felt like a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck, a reminder that buried treasures really can surface when you least expect them. On the other hand, the system continues to strain under its own popularity.
Queues were punishingly long, both for sellers checking in and for buyers waiting to browse. The slow pace, combined with inconsistent communication about rules (like whether bags were permitted), made the experience more exhausting than it needed to be. The atmosphere inside the hall itself, while exciting, was also chaotic—cramped aisles, elbows brushing, the constant pressure to grab items before someone else did. It’s a formula that generates both euphoria and frustration.
The paradox is that this chaos is part of its charm. If the bring-and-buy were perfectly streamlined, it would lose some of the thrill of the hunt. Still, I hope organisers consider small changes—more staff at peak times, clearer rules, perhaps timed entry slots—to strike a better balance between excitement and exhaustion.
Demo Culture: Guided vs. Full Teach
Another recurring theme was the way publishers approach demos. I encountered both extremes: long, comprehensive rules explanations that attempted to simulate a full game experience, and short, curated snippets designed to highlight the core mechanisms in under half an hour.
Both methods have merit. The full teach respects players who want to know exactly what they’re getting into before committing to a purchase. It also works well for heavy games where context matters and shortcuts could leave the wrong impression. But at a convention, time is precious, and the curated demo often feels more appropriate. Thirty minutes of engaging play teaches me more about whether I’ll enjoy a game than an hour-long lecture ever could.
What struck me most was how divided attendees were in their preferences. Some of my friends valued the thorough explanations, others—myself included—preferred quick immersion. The takeaway for publishers is clear: flexibility matters. Offering both options, or tailoring the approach based on the table, might be the best way forward.
Trends in Game Design
Beyond individual demos, certain design trends stood out.
- Environmental and Conservation Themes: From Endeavour: Deep Sea to Forest Shuffle: Dartmoor, ecological narratives continue to resonate. These themes lend emotional weight to otherwise abstract mechanisms, creating a sense of purpose that elevates the experience.
- Two-Player Focus: Titles like Kanal and Kelp reminded me how strong the market for two-player games has become. They’re often asymmetric, deeply strategic, and compact—perfect for couples or close friends who form the backbone of many gaming groups.
- Replayability Through Modular Content: Expansions like SETI’s new aliens or Bomb Busters’ tuck-box missions show how designers are leaning into replayability. Rather than offering one static experience, they build systems that evolve with each play.
- Elegance Over Complexity: Even as heavy Euros still draw attention, there’s a clear demand for leaner, sharper designs like Furnace. Many of the weekend’s standouts were games that achieved depth through elegance rather than sheer volume of rules.
These trends reflect a maturing hobby: one that embraces diversity of play styles while remaining anchored in strong mechanisms.
The Social Core
Amid the cardboard and rulebooks, what really defined UKGE 2025 for me was the human side. Sharing discoveries with friends, queuing together, debating ratings late at night—all of these moments stitched the weekend into something more than a shopping spree or a parade of demos.
The convention also reminded me how diverse the gaming community has become. Families with small children, older couples, teenagers, solo attendees—everyone seemed equally at home. The open gaming hall was a testament to that inclusivity, with tables hosting everything from quick fillers to marathon campaigns. That communal spirit is, in my mind, the real heartbeat of the Expo.
Purchases and Regrets
Looking back at what I brought home, I’m pleased overall. Tea Garden justified its reputation instantly. Endeavour: Deep Sea lived up to expectations. Furnace and Motor City felt like bargains. Not every game wowed me—Bomb Busters was more of a curiosity than a keeper—but the overall hit rate was high.
The only real regret was overextending myself physically. Lugging heavy bags through queues left my shoulders aching for days afterwards. Next year, I’ll plan better: a sturdier backpack, maybe even a trolley. It sounds mundane, but at an event where walking ten thousand steps a day is the norm, logistics matter.
Every convention teaches me something. For UKGE 2025, three lessons stand out:
- Pace Yourself – It’s tempting to pack every hour with demos, but the best experiences often come from unplanned wanderings. Leaving space for serendipity makes the event richer.
- Prioritise People – Games can be bought later, often online. The unique value of a convention lies in the interactions—with designers, publishers, and fellow gamers.
- Accept the Chaos – Queues will happen, rules will get muddled, games will sell out before you reach the shelf. Fighting that reality only leads to frustration. Embracing it, even laughing at it, makes the whole experience more enjoyable.