When you sit down at the table with a game of Splendor, the first impression can be deceptive. The components are elegant and minimal, the rules teach in less than ten minutes, and the turns are lightning fast. There’s no elaborate board, no walls of text on cards, and no complex scoring systems to juggle. At first glance, it almost seems like a lightweight filler, something you’d play while waiting for the real game night to start. But then you play two or three rounds, and the depth reveals itself. Suddenly, every card matters, every token choice matters, and the timing of when to grab a noble or bank a card feels like a decisive moment.
For couples or gaming partners who often find themselves with two at the table, Splendor offers a surprisingly sharp and satisfying experience. My husband Ben and I play this one often, and over time we’ve evolved a house rule set that makes the two-player mode more balanced. Instead of the typical race to 15 points, we bump the target up to 25. We also scale down the card market slightly, using about half of the Level 1 deck. That change speeds up the early economy while ensuring that high-value cards still feel like hard-earned rewards rather than inevitable endgame pickups. This tweak has given us some of our most memorable matches, and it highlights how Splendor, though simple on the surface, adapts beautifully to different player counts and play styles.
One of the most striking dynamics in two-player Splendor is how directly every decision impacts your opponent. In a four-player game, you might build your engine quietly in a corner, trusting that not every card you want will vanish before your turn. With two, there’s no such safety. If you’re eyeing a card, odds are high that your opponent is too, and hesitation can cost you dearly. That constant push and pull transforms what could be a passive tableau-builder into a tense duel of anticipation and counterplay.
Ben and I learned this the hard way during one of our fiercest sessions. He had been collecting green and blue gem cards, carefully setting up an engine that could unlock a Level 3 card worth a massive five points. I noticed the same card and, realizing it was well within his reach, decided to reserve it. My thought at the time wasn’t even about winning—it was purely damage control, a way of keeping him from leaping ahead. I tucked it into my reserve and nearly forgot about it, focusing instead on other mid-tier cards and scrambling for nobles. The game went on. I crept up to 22 points, almost within striking distance of victory. Then I looked at my reserved cards and realized that the Level 3 card I’d taken in desperation was now affordable. Buying it pushed me over 25, and I claimed victory. Ben’s frustration was palpable, but in that moment I couldn’t help but admire how Splendor rewards not just long-term planning but also opportunistic sabotage.
This interaction gets at the heart of what makes Splendor so engaging with two players. The economy of the game is tight, and every gem counts. In larger groups, it’s easier to think in terms of efficiency: build your engine, accumulate discounts, and climb the ladder. With two, you have to think in terms of denial. What card is your opponent about to buy? Which gems are they quietly stockpiling? Is it worth taking a less efficient card if it means stalling their strategy for two or three turns? There’s an almost chess-like quality to this constant surveillance, though wrapped in a package light enough to stay fun rather than exhausting.
The balance between offense and defense in Splendor is delicate. If you spend too much energy blocking your opponent, your own engine lags. But if you focus solely on efficiency, you leave yourself open to sudden swings. Timing is everything. Reserves, especially, become a weapon in two-player mode. In larger groups, reserving is often used for securing a card you want to buy later while taking a wildcard gem. In duels, it frequently becomes a tool of pure spite. You grab the card because you know your opponent was one turn away from it. It might sit useless in your hand for half the game, but the psychological impact is undeniable.
Nobles, too, shift in importance with fewer players. In a group game, they’re often opportunistic bonuses that reward natural engine-building. With two, they can become strategic goals. Watching your opponent’s tableau and spotting when they’re one gem away from attracting a noble can push you to redirect your own efforts. Sometimes it’s worth abandoning a clean economic path in order to block that free three-point swing. Other times, you can race them to it, using a mix of colors they aren’t prioritizing. These micro-decisions build on each other until the tension feels electric.
Another fascinating layer of two-player Splendor lies in the pacing. With only two players, the game is fast. Your cycle turns so quickly that there’s little downtime, which amplifies the sense of being in a duel. Every token you take, every card you reserve, every noble you attract shifts the tempo. There’s a rhythm to the game, and learning to disrupt that rhythm—whether by forcing your opponent to hoard tokens, by draining a pile of gems they need, or by rushing victory points before they can stabilize—becomes as critical as building a strong tableau.
Over time, Ben and I have developed personal playstyles that clash in interesting ways. He prefers long-term engines, carefully stacking discounts until he can buy high-value cards with almost no cost. I’m more opportunistic, leaning on mid-tier cards and nobles to build momentum quickly. This contrast often leads to dramatic finishes, where one of us is one turn away from closing the game and the other pulls off a desperate move to claim the win. Those endings, whether frustrating or triumphant, are what keep us coming back.
What’s especially striking about Splendor is how replayable it remains despite its apparent simplicity. The variability in the card layout ensures that no two games are alike. Sometimes the nobles demand a heavy focus on red and green, pulling players toward certain patterns. Other times, the high-value cards lean on black and blue, creating a completely different strategic landscape. With two players, this variability feels even sharper, since every card is hotly contested. There’s no hiding in the crowd—if you want it, you have to fight for it.
The tactile quality of the game also deserves mention. Those poker-chip-style tokens are more than just currency; they’re part of the psychological battle. Taking a gem feels satisfying, stacking them feels like wealth accumulating in your hands, and watching your opponent’s pile grow creates a sense of pressure. In a two-player game, where you’re constantly watching the other player’s economy, the physicality of the chips reinforces the duel-like atmosphere. It’s not just math—it feels like a struggle for treasure.
Interestingly, Splendor also shines as a teaching tool for newer gamers, and two-player sessions are perfect for this. The rules are approachable, but the depth reveals itself naturally. You can teach a newcomer in minutes, and by the end of their first game, they’ve already started to grasp the tension between efficiency and denial. With experienced players, that same simple framework supports hours of cutthroat play. Few games manage to be both gateway-friendly and endlessly replayable at higher levels, and Splendor deserves its reputation for striking that balance.
Our house rules for two players have become second nature, but they also highlight an important point: games can and should adapt to the way you want to play them. The official rules work fine, but raising the victory threshold and reducing the deck makes the experience sharper, more strategic, and more satisfying for us. In a hobby full of sprawling rulebooks and expansions, it’s refreshing to have a game that can flex so easily.
Ultimately, two-player Splendor is a reminder that simplicity and depth aren’t opposites. The game doesn’t rely on elaborate mechanics or piles of content to create drama. Instead, it thrives on the interactions between players, the subtle mind games, the careful watching of what your opponent is doing, and the thrill of snatching victory at the last possible moment. For Ben and me, it has become a staple not because it’s flashy or complex, but because it consistently delivers tight, tense, memorable experiences in under an hour.
Tash-Kalar – When Abstract Games Turn Legendary
Sitting down with Tash-Kalar: Arena of Legends for the first time is a little like stepping into a puzzle that keeps shifting under your hands. At a glance, it looks deceptively simple. There’s a grid-based board, tokens in player colors, and a hand of cards with patterns that need to be formed. On the surface, it recalls traditional abstract games like checkers or Go. But the moment you start playing, it reveals itself to be something stranger, more volatile, and far more theatrical. This isn’t just an abstract duel of placement and removal. This is an arena where summoned beings appear with a flash, wreak havoc, and vanish again, leaving the battlefield changed forever.
When my husband Ben and I cracked open the box and set up for our first match, we opted for the introductory mode. That seemed like the safest way to learn without being overwhelmed by the layers of complexity. The rules themselves aren’t difficult to understand. You play tokens onto the board to create specific patterns. When a pattern matches the requirement on one of your cards, you summon a creature, replacing or moving pieces, sometimes adding new ones. Each creature has a unique effect, ranging from sliding tokens across the board to obliterating an opponent’s pieces in dramatic bursts. The result is a constant cycle of building, destroying, rebuilding, and maneuvering.
Right away, what struck me was the instability of the board state. In many abstract strategy games, the pieces you place tend to stick around, slowly accumulating until the board is dense with possibility. Tash-Kalar flips that expectation on its head. Your pieces are fragile, temporary, and frequently swept aside by your opponent’s plays. One turn you feel like you’ve established a foundation; the next, half your tokens are gone in a blaze of summoned fury. This creates a rhythm that oscillates between careful planning and sudden chaos.
In our first game, this volatility created some unforgettable moments.We were playing the “high form” version, which introduces public objectives that both players can complete for points. One of these objectives was to form a line of tokens spanning the entire board. Both of us were racing to claim it, placing tokens methodically in hopes of stretching across before the other.
I was close to completing it when Ben summoned a creature that detonated like a bomb, wiping out a significant portion of my progress. In an instant, my grand plan lay in ruins, and the objective slipped from my grasp. The swing was brutal, but it was also thrilling in a way few abstract games manage to achieve.
What makes this volatility palatable rather than frustrating is the way the game reframes defense. In most abstract games, defense is a matter of protecting your pieces or blocking your opponent’s options. In Tash-Kalar, that approach doesn’t really work. Because you can’t see what cards your opponent is holding, you never know exactly what formation they’re aiming for. You can guess, based on the general shape of their tokens, but there’s always uncertainty. Instead of building a wall of safety, you play with the knowledge that disruption is inevitable. Your tokens are not precious; they are fuel for summoning and tools for adaptation. Learning to embrace this fluidity, to treat the destruction of your pieces as an opportunity rather than a setback, becomes part of the mindset shift that Tash-Kalar demands.
This mindset is what makes the game feel so different from others in the genre. In Splendor, progress is permanent. Every card you buy remains yours, and your tableau only grows stronger. In Tash-Kalar, progress is fragile. Summons change the battlefield constantly, and even the grandest setups can crumble in seconds. The satisfaction comes not from accumulating a perfect engine but from orchestrating a chain of plays that turn the tide in your favor. When you manage to summon a creature that slides your tokens into a new pattern, which then triggers another summon, which finally clears the way for a third, the payoff feels spectacular. It’s a burst of creativity and cunning that can leave your opponent reeling.
One of the fascinating aspects of Tash-Kalar is how it blends the abstract mechanics of pattern-making with the thematic flair of fantasy combat. Abstract games often strip away themes to focus purely on spatial logic. Tash-Kalar keeps the logic but dresses it in a theatrical costume. The creatures have names, illustrations, and personalities. When you play a card that represents a fire elemental, you don’t just move pieces—you feel like you’re unleashing a destructive force. When you summon a trickster who swaps tokens around the board, it feels mischievous, even playful. This thematic layer doesn’t alter the mechanics, but it colors the experience, making the abstract puzzle more visceral and memorable.
Our first session revealed how powerful this blend could be. Even though we were playing the introductory mode, the swings and surprises had us laughing, groaning, and cheering. Ben’s bomb-like summon was devastating, but it also felt cinematic, as though the arena had exploded in a blaze of glory. My own smaller victories, like chaining two summons in a row to reclaim lost ground, felt heroic in their own right. This sense of drama elevates the game beyond a simple puzzle. It becomes a story unfolding turn by turn, a clash of wills that feels larger than the sum of its mechanics.
The high form objectives deserve special mention. Without them, the game is a battle of summons, where victory comes from the sheer momentum of outmaneuvering your opponent. With them, the game introduces an additional layer of tension and direction. Objectives give you something concrete to aim for beyond just survival. They also create direct conflict, since both players are racing toward the same goals. In our match, the board-spanning line objective created a race that fueled much of the drama. Objectives like this add structure to the chaos, ensuring that players are constantly pulled into interaction rather than drifting into parallel play.
At the same time, objectives force you to balance long-term planning against immediate needs. Do you sacrifice efficiency in order to grab a quick objective, or do you ignore it and focus on setting up a devastating summon? Do you let your opponent take the points and concentrate on building momentum, trusting that a later swing will even the score? These decisions are rarely clear-cut, and the uncertainty keeps you engaged. Even when you fall behind, the possibility of a dramatic comeback always lingers.
Comparing Tash-Kalar to other abstract games highlights its uniqueness. Games like chess or Go reward stability, accumulation, and foresight. Tash-Kalar rewards adaptability, creativity, and risk-taking. Summoner Wars, a game we love for its tactical battles and epic moments, shares some DNA with Tash-Kalar, particularly in the sense of summoning units to achieve goals. But where Summoner Wars leans into deck construction, battlefield positioning, and the permanence of armies, Tash-Kalar thrives on impermanence. Pieces are summoned, sacrificed, and swept away, and victory comes from riding the chaos rather than resisting it.
One of the subtle challenges of Tash-Kalar is card management. You only ever hold a limited number of cards, and drawing new ones requires either summoning or spending turns replenishing. This forces you to make tough choices. Do you burn a turn drawing in hopes of better options, or do you struggle forward with the cards in hand? Do you summon a weaker creature now to keep momentum, or hold out for the chance to create a stronger pattern later? These decisions add another layer of tension, since your hand represents not just options but potential.
The learning curve of Tash-Kalar is steep in some ways, but it rewards persistence. Early games can feel bewildering, as you scramble to form patterns and fail more often than you succeed. But as you play more, your eye for possibilities sharpens. You begin to see not just the immediate patterns but also the potential two or three turns down the line. You start to anticipate what your opponent might be aiming for, even without knowing their exact cards. This growth is satisfying, as the chaotic battlefield slowly transforms from inscrutable mess to tactical playground.
For Ben and me, that growth has been part of the fun. In our first game, we were often stumped, placing tokens with vague hopes of forming something useful. By the end of the session, we were already seeing the possibilities more clearly, spotting ways to disrupt each other and chaining plays more confidently. It’s the kind of game that rewards repeated plays, not just for the variety of card interactions but for the skill you develop as a player.
Perhaps the most compelling thing about Tash-Kalar is how it balances competition with spectacle. In many competitive games, victory comes with a sense of quiet calculation. In Tash-Kalar, victory often arrives in a blaze of theatrics. When a creature’s ability swings the game, both players feel it. The one who unleashed it basks in triumph; the one who suffered it groans but can’t help admiring the cleverness. It creates shared moments of drama that linger long after the game ends.
Reviews That Shape Our Gaming Table
For most board gamers, discovery is half the fun. You hear whispers about a new title generating buzz, or you stumble across a video that makes a game look irresistible, and suddenly you find yourself scouring the internet for availability or checking whether someone in your group has already picked up a copy. In the age of streaming, podcasts, and endless content, reviews have become more than just buyer’s guides. They shape expectations, frame how we think about mechanics, and even influence how games feel when they finally hit the table. For Ben and Ben, reviewers like Rahdo, Shut Up & Sit Down, and Space-Biff! have been pivotal voices, each offering their own blend of analysis, entertainment, and perspective.
Take Tash-Kalar, for example. Before I ever put tokens on that board, I had already watched Rahdo explain its mechanics in one of his characteristically thorough run-throughs. His videos have a way of demystifying complex systems without draining them of their excitement. Watching him shuffle tokens around and demonstrate how summoning worked gave me a sense of the game’s rhythm long before I touched it. Then there was Shut Up & Sit Down, whose review wasn’t just a breakdown of rules but a theatrical exploration of what the game feels like to play. Their ability to capture the spirit of a game rather than just its mechanics is unmatched. By the time Ben and I actually played, I was primed to expect chaos, spectacle, and dramatic reversals—and the game delivered.
Splendor, on the other hand, didn’t arrive in our home because of a formal review. It came through osmosis, through the buzz that was circulating in the hobby at large.When we finally brought it home, it already felt like an old friend, a shared cultural touchstone within our community. Later, I found myself reading Space-Biff!’s review, which, true to Dan’s style, was less about the mechanical ins and outs and more about the emotional experience of play. That piece resonated with me, because Splendor is exactly that kind of game: clean, direct, and full of small, memorable moments that stick with you.
What’s fascinating is how different review voices highlight different facets of the same game. Rahdo zeroes in on mechanics, pacing, and turn structure, showing what it feels like to handle the pieces and think through a turn. Shut Up & Sit Down bring in performance, emphasizing emotion, table presence, and the way games create stories. Space-Biff! takes a more essayistic approach, reflecting on broader themes and the cultural role of games. Experiencing all three perspectives doesn’t just tell you whether a game is good—it creates a richer sense of what it means to play it. When Ben and I sit down with a game influenced by those reviews, we’re not just playing the game itself. We’re also engaging with those interpretations, consciously or not.
Reviews also shape expectations in subtler ways. When you’ve watched a charismatic playthrough, you can’t help but bring that energy to the table. After seeing Shut Up & Sit Down’s exuberant commentary on Terra Mystica, I found myself paying more attention to the drama of expansion and competition on the board, rather than just the efficiency of my engine. The way they framed it as a clash of civilizations colored my own play, making it feel more thematic and narrative-driven. Without that framing, I might have approached it more as a dry optimization puzzle. That’s the power of reviews—they frame the lens through which we see the game.
Community buzz plays a similar role. With Splendor, the chatter around it in our group created a sense of inevitability. Everyone was trying it, discussing strategies, comparing tactics. That constant exposure builds anticipation, and anticipation changes how a game lands. Playing something that everyone around you is excited about creates a feedback loop: you’re more engaged, you pay closer attention to the subtleties, and you’re more likely to come back for repeat plays. In contrast, a game discovered in isolation might take longer to grab hold, even if it’s mechanically brilliant.
There’s also the question of timing. A review or recommendation often hits hardest when it arrives just as you’re looking for something new. When I rewatched Shut Up & Sit Down’s Terra Mystica review, I wasn’t in the market for a new game, but I was hungry for a reminder of why I loved heavy euros. Their enthusiasm rekindled that spark, not by teaching me anything new about the game, but by reframing what was already familiar. That’s another dimension of reviews—they don’t just sell new titles, they help us fall back in love with old ones.
Not all reviews influence us in the same way, though. Some steer us toward games we might never have noticed. Others act as gentle warnings, helping us avoid titles that wouldn’t suit our tastes. And sometimes a review makes us curious enough to try something, only to discover that our own experience diverges. That divergence can be just as valuable. Playing a game after hearing glowing praise but not enjoying it forces us to articulate our own preferences more clearly. Do we value narrative immersion over mechanical purity? Do we prefer tension-driven duels over sprawling multiplayer experiences? Reviews become conversation partners in that sense, helping us define who we are as gamers.
In the case of Tash-Kalar, the reviews shaped my expectations about its volatility and drama, which helped me appreciate it even when I lost half my pieces to Ben’s bomb-like summon. Instead of feeling defeated, I laughed and saw it as part of the spectacle. Without that framing, I might have been more frustrated. With Splendor, the buzz prepared me for its elegance, so I didn’t dismiss it as too light. I came into it already primed to see the depth beneath the simplicity. In both cases, reviews and community hype acted as guides, steering me toward a more rewarding first encounter.
There’s also a social element to reviews. Sharing them with friends or group members creates common ground before the game even hits the table. Watching a Shut Up & Sit Down skit about a game gives you in-jokes and reference points that make the actual play more fun. Reading a Space-Biff! Essay and discussing its themes can make a session feel more reflective. Reviews extend the gaming experience beyond the table, into the conversations we have before and after. They become part of the culture of play.
In our local group, the Indy Boardgamers, reviews often act as catalysts for what gets played. Someone brings up a new Shut Up & Sit Down episode, and suddenly three people are clamoring to try that game.The group dynamic amplifies the impact of reviews, turning them from individual recommendations into communal movements. That collective enthusiasm is contagious. When you sit down to play something that everyone’s excited about, the energy is different. Even if the game itself is just okay, the experience of sharing that discovery makes it memorable.
Another interesting dynamic is how reviews influence the way we teach games. After watching Rahdo explain a set of mechanics, I sometimes find myself echoing his phrasing or examples when I introduce the game to others. His clarity seeps into my own explanation, making the teacher smoother. Similarly, Shut Up & Sit Down’s emphasis on emotion sometimes pushes me to frame a game in more thematic terms, even if it’s mechanically abstract. Reviews don’t just shape our play—they shape the way we present games to others.
Of course, reviews also have their limits. They’re filtered through personal tastes, biases, and performance styles. A game that dazzles on video might feel flat in person. A glowing review might raise expectations so high that disappointment is inevitable. This tension is part of the fun, though. Reviews aren’t meant to dictate our experiences; they’re sparks that ignite curiosity. The real discovery still happens at the table.
For me and Ben, the interplay between reviews, community buzz, and our own experiences has become part of the rhythm of the hobby. We discover games through videos, blogs, and conversations. We bring them home, try them out, and then compare what we felt with what we were told to expect. Sometimes the match is perfect, like with Splendor. Sometimes it’s different but still rewarding, like with Tash-Kalar. Either way, the conversation between reviewers, community, and personal play enriches the hobby, turning it into something larger than just the games themselves.
Cooking Between Games – Coconut Quinoa and Beyond
Board games have a way of shaping evenings, but food shapes the rhythms around them. For every game night filled with laughter, groans of frustration, and the thrill of victory, there’s usually a meal before or after that anchors the experience. Sometimes it’s as simple as ordering a pizza or throwing together a quick salad, but other times it’s an experiment in the kitchen, something we’ve been curious to try or a recipe we’ve been wanting to perfect. In our house, cooking has become as much a part of our hobby as gaming, and while the spotlight tends to fall on cardboard and tokens, the meals surrounding them leave just as lasting an impression.
Recently, Ben and I have been exploring Whole-Grain Mornings by Megan Gordon, a cookbook that celebrates breakfast with hearty, flavorful, and nutritious recipes. The book leans into grains as the foundation for meals, and its range of recipes has kept us experimenting well beyond the morning hours. One of the standouts has been Triple Coconut Quinoa, a dish that intrigued us from the moment we saw the name. Coconut is one of those flavors that can go in many directions—tropical, savory, sweet, subtle, or bold. Pairing it with quinoa, which I had only ever eaten in savory contexts, felt unusual but exciting.
When Ben made it for the first time, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Quinoa has a nutty, earthy quality, and I wondered if it would really pair well with the creaminess of coconut milk and the sweetness of shredded coconut. But the result surprised me. The dish was mildly sweet, filling, and incredibly satisfying, something you could eat for breakfast but also as a light dessert or even an afternoon snack. The texture of the quinoa gave it substance, while the coconut layers added richness and complexity. It was a revelation that grains don’t have to be locked into savory roles. This was a dish that encouraged us to rethink what breakfast could be.
Cooking it together—or rather, watching Ben take the lead while I played sous-chef—was part of the fun. Measuring out the quinoa, rinsing it carefully, heating coconut milk until it simmered, and letting the grains absorb all that flavor created a kind of ritual. When the shredded coconut and flakes were added, the kitchen filled with a warm, nutty aroma that felt like comfort food even before the first bite. Cooking often mirrors gaming in this way: small steps, anticipation, the satisfaction of seeing it all come together at the end.
The Triple Coconut Quinoa has since made a few repeat appearances in our kitchen, usually on slower weekends when we have the time to enjoy the process. What I love most about it is how versatile it feels. You can top it with fruit for freshness, drizzle it with honey for added sweetness, or leave it simple and let the coconut speak for itself. It’s hearty enough to fuel a long morning of games, but light enough not to weigh you down before tackling something like a session of Tash-Kalar or Splendor.
Of course, not every recipe experiment has been as exciting. Around the same time, we tried Jamie Oliver’s Chicken in Milk, a dish that sounded so intriguing on paper. The concept is unusual: chicken roasted in milk with lemon zest, cinnamon, and sage. The milk curdles during cooking, creating a sauce that is meant to be both comforting and surprising. It’s the kind of recipe that promises bold results, and we were curious enough to give it a try.
The process itself was straightforward—browning the chicken, adding milk and aromatics, and letting it roast slowly. The kitchen smelled promising, with the citrus and cinnamon mingling in a way that felt both savory and slightly sweet. When we finally sat down to eat, though, our reaction was more muted. The chicken was tender, but the sauce didn’t quite come together for us. The curdled milk created a texture that felt off, and while the flavors weren’t unpleasant, they weren’t particularly compelling either. It wasn’t a failure, exactly, but it also wasn’t something we were eager to repeat. Sometimes recipes are like games in that way—promising on the surface, intriguing in concept, but ultimately just not a good fit for your tastes.
Contrast that with another recipe we’ve been revisiting often: chicken enchiladas from an America’s Test Kitchen cookbook. Unlike Jamie Oliver’s experiment, these enchiladas deliver every time. The recipe stands out because it emphasizes making the sauce from scratch, and that single step elevates the entire dish. Instead of relying on a canned sauce, which can often be one-note, the homemade version layers flavors carefully—roasting, simmering, seasoning until everything comes together with depth and brightness.
The sauce clings to the tortillas in just the right way, infusing each bite with warmth and spice without overpowering the chicken. It’s the kind of dish that feels indulgent but also deeply comforting, the culinary equivalent of a game you know will always hit the table smoothly. Ben has perfected the technique of rolling the tortillas tightly, ensuring that they hold their shape and bake evenly, while I usually handle the garnishes—fresh cilantro, chopped onions, maybe a bit of sour cream. When we bring the pan to the table, bubbling and golden from the oven, it feels like an event.
There’s something especially satisfying about making enchiladas on a game night. The preparation is hands-on but not overly complicated, and once they’re in the oven, you have just enough time to set up the game. By the time the first round of Splendor or a warm-up filler is finished, dinner is ready, and the table becomes a space for both eating and playing. Food and games merge in these moments, not as separate activities but as parts of a single shared experience.
Cooking, like gaming, also thrives on community. Just as we discovered Splendor through the Indy Boardgamers group, we’ve swapped recipes with friends and family, trading recommendations and sharing successes. Food blogs, much like game reviews, influence what ends up in our kitchen. Megan Gordon’s Whole-Grain Mornings nudged us toward experimenting with grains in sweeter dishes. America’s Test Kitchen convinced us that scratch-made sauces are worth the effort. Even Jamie Oliver’s odd chicken experiment, though not a favorite, expanded our palate and gave us a story to tell. These recipes become part of the narrative of our shared lives, much like the games we play.
One of the fascinating overlaps between cooking and gaming is the way both activities reward process as much as outcome. When you cook, you chop, stir, simmer, and wait. Each step is small, but together they create something greater. Games work the same way: each turn might feel incremental, but the accumulation of decisions builds to a satisfying whole. Both activities also thrive on experimentation. Try a new ingredient, explore a different strategy—sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but the learning is part of the fun.
Cooking also adds a tactile, sensory dimension to game nights. Rolling tortillas, stirring a pot of simmering quinoa, or smelling cinnamon and lemon roast in the oven prepares you emotionally for play. By the time you sit down to shuffle cards or stack tokens, you’re already immersed in a sensory experience. Food warms the room, both literally and metaphorically, creating the atmosphere that games then build upon.
There’s also the ritual aspect. For us, cooking before a game is a way of slowing down, of shifting gears from the busyness of the day into the intentionality of an evening together. It sets the stage. Just as setting up a board game signals that it’s time to focus and engage, cooking a recipe signals that we’re entering a space of care and attention. When we sit down to eat, the conversation often drifts toward strategy, past victories, or what we’re excited to play next. The meal becomes part of the prelude to the game, not just a separate activity.
Even the failures have value. That Chicken in Milk may not have been our favorite, but it reminded us of the joy of trying new things. It gave us a shared memory, a laugh about curdled sauce, and a sense of adventure in the kitchen. Just as a game that falls flat can still spark interesting discussions about design and preference, a recipe that disappoints can spark curiosity about what might have made it better. Sometimes the miss is as memorable as the hit.
As we’ve continued to explore recipes alongside our gaming sessions, I’ve come to appreciate the way the two hobbies complement each other. Cooking satisfies the body while gaming satisfies the mind. Food sustains us through long sessions, and games give us something to anticipate after the meal. Together, they create a rhythm of nourishment and play, a balance that keeps both hobbies fresh and rewarding.
Conclusion
Looking back on this journey through Splendor’s strategic cutthroat sessions, Tash-Kalar’s abstract battles, the lessons learned from reviews and community, and the recipes that have become part of our shared story, what stands out most is how seamlessly games and food enrich each other. They may seem like separate hobbies—one driven by imagination and competition, the other by nourishment and creativity—but together they create experiences that are more than the sum of their parts.
Games invite us to think differently, to experiment with strategies, and to revel in both victory and defeat. Food does the same in its own way, asking us to try new recipes, explore unexpected flavor combinations, and find joy in the process even when the result isn’t perfect. Both require patience, attention, and a willingness to step into something new. Both reward us with memories, laughter, and connection.
The best nights are not only about who wins Splendor or who pulls off the boldest formation in Tash-Kalar. They’re also about sitting down together over a plate of chicken enchiladas, discovering that quinoa can be sweet as well as savory, or even laughing about a culinary experiment gone sideways. Every dish, like every game, becomes part of the narrative we carry forward.
Reviews, community groups, and shared recommendations fuel this cycle, reminding us that we are not just cooking or playing in isolation. We are part of a wider conversation, one that celebrates creativity, curiosity, and the simple joy of spending time together. Whether it’s reading Rahdo’s thoughts on Tash-Kalar, watching Shut Up & Sit Down’s irreverent takes on complex games, or swapping recipes with friends, we are connected by stories, opinions, and enthusiasm.
In the end, the heart of it all is community. Food brings people to the table, and games keep them there longer. Together they create moments that linger in memory, moments that are retold and replayed, much like favorite games and beloved recipes. The combination grounds us in the present while giving us something to look forward to the next time we shuffle the deck, roll the dice, or open a cookbook.
So whether the evening ends with a surprising victory in Splendor, an explosive chain reaction in Tash-Kalar, or a bowl of coconut quinoa that tastes better than you expected, the real win is in the shared experience. Games and food together remind us that joy is best when it’s savored slowly, with good company, and a willingness to try again tomorrow.