The consensus on Take Time, the abstract teamwork game by Alexi Piovesan and Julien Prothière, seems to be that it’s Wolfgang Warsch’s The Mind but Even More, which means, mercifully, that it’s marginally less likely to spur tedious arguments over the difference between an activity and a game.

As an enjoyer of The Mind, at least in moderation, I figured I should take a look. Here’s my professional diagnosis: It’s The Mind but Even More. Even the hivemind’s broken clock is right twice a day.

Speaking of broken clocks, Take Time is fashioned as the very same, an analog clock with six segments instead of twelve, and an especially illegible one at that, but one that’s perfectly suited to counting cards and staring apprehensively at one’s fellow players.

Like The Mind, Take Time is all about ordering cards into their correct sequence, although in this case the question is more cerebral and less about marching in time to a shared internal metronome. Your primary tool is a deck of cards. There are two suits, both of which show ranks from 1 to 12. Some number of these cards will be distributed to your team, and it’s your task to arrange them around the clock according to a few simple rules that naturally turn out to be anything but simple to execute.

There are three cardinal placement rules. Rule the First: Each of the clock’s six segments must have at least one card next to it. Rule the Second: The sum of each segment’s cards must match or exceed the tally that came before it. Rule the Third: None of these sums may break twenty-four.

That last rule is the really crucial one. No surprise, but it’s what keeps Take Time from feeling trivial. Sure, you could make a plan to dump everybody’s low cards onto the clock’s lowest hours and then build to the higher segments. But (1) you’re only dealt half of the deck in any given session, which means you can’t count on any given rank appearing to solve the problem, and (2) because you can’t bust twenty-four, it quickly becomes necessary to spread out your cards a little more smartly.

In addition to the game’s cardinal rules, each clock offers its own variations. Early on, these are familiar enough. Perhaps a segment will only hold white cards (rude), or require exactly a pair, or have the closest sum to 12, or be the recipient of the first two cards played to the table, or only be laid face-down.

Ah, that’s right, facing. Most cards must be played face-down. But depending on the player count — and successive failures — a certain number can be visible. Take Time is often about signaling. A face-down card to indicate you have a segment handled, a face-up one to ask for help. An exploratory digit here or there. Clearing your throat and displaying your color-coded card backs for all to see.

At a mechanical level, none of this is all that proximate to The Mind. Even the shared notion of playing cards in sequence is fundamentally distinct. Here, there’s nothing preventing you from playing your middle cards first, provided the eventual sum on the clock is ascending. At least until you reach the envelope where all the clocks demand you play in a certain order, anyway.

But comparisons to The Mind are apt because the sensation both games produce are largely similar. This is a low-communication game — not zero communication, although it bills itself that way — that likes to dwell somewhere in the pit of your stomach. It’s contentious in the same way as Warsch’s card game, everyone quick to lay blame at their peers’ feet, although its expanded scope and duration make it even tougher to take in stride. “What the heck were you doing with that one placement?” is a regular tally-ender.

The game’s secret weapon is its overarching format. Rather than focusing on a single play, the clocks in Take Time are divided between twelve envelopes. Each has four clocks, and — this is important — you’re meant to tackle them in sequence. This is a bit more formal than The Mind, but it’s geared toward the same end. Where The Mind was so brief and so simple that it demanded multiple plays, Take Time could easily be misconstrued as a straightforward scenario game, with shades of The Crew or those Lord of the Rings trick-takers. By asking players to progress through four clocks, including any do-overs for flubbed hands, it engenders that woo-woo telepathic sensation that was so familiar to The Mind. The group squabbles, points fingers, grouses, but gradually comes together. They learn one another’s tells and tics. They become a team.

Here’s an example. Anyone who’s played way too much of The Mind might recall the moment when the game asks you to play all the cards face-down. I remember the first time we were asked to do that. We figured we would try on a lark. We’d already been plugging away at those cards for an hour. What was one more try? And then we made it through something like six full rounds of face-down cards, our counts improbably perfect, our internal metronomes almost perfectly in sync.

Take Time pulls that same trick! On the second envelope’s final clock, after being trained to play more and more cards face-down, suddenly it insists that the entire clock will be handled blind. It’s a rug-pull moment, and it’s safe to say we were demoralized at the mere prospect. And then, of course, we nailed it on our second try. That Take Time is more puzzle and less, y’know, quietly counting, only makes these little coups all the more satisfying.

Again, though, I don’t want my enthusiasm to go misconstrued. Take Time is sometimes a bitter pill to swallow. Where The Mind presented itself as a parlor trick, there’s no mistaking the function of this particular plaything. It wants you to strain at every little detail. It wants you to make plans and then adapt them on the fly. It insists on locking you into a sequence until you get it right. Sure, it will throw you a bone every now and then. The more you fail, the more face-up cards you’re afforded. But only to a point. Eventually, your group either learns to function together or the frustration mounts.

I think I like it. But it’s also a game I can only stomach in small doses. An envelope here or there, not a spree. And it’s also one of those games that swiftly identifies the players it shouldn’t be shared with.

But hey, at least everybody seems to agree that it’s a game. And with the right people, in the right mood, during the right portion of the evening, it’s a fascinating thing to behold for many of the same reasons that The Mind was fascinating to behold. When everything finally slips into place, it feels like magic. The hard part is all the grunt work that comes before the flourish.

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Back when I was in the dating pool — the late Pleistocene, oh ho ho — I would sometimes tell women that my only qualification for a life partner was somebody I could “play boggle in bed” with. This was, of course, a euphemism for playing Bill Cooke and Allan Turoff’s 1972 word-making board game Boggle. While atop a bed. Because beds are cozy. And let me tell you, that joke goes so much harder among people who don’t play so many board games that they immediately assume that’s what I meant by “Boggle” in the first place.

Amabel Holland’s cross4 falls into the category of retro word games. Like Boggle, I suppose. Frankly, I would rather play Boggle. Which perhaps isn’t a ding against cross4 so much as it is a statement about how great Boggle is.

cross4 is a crossword-making game. Actually, cross4 is four crossword-making games. In each, the basics remain untouched. You roll a septet of dice that show various letters. Then you take those letters — some or all, it’s up to you — and assign them to the blank spaces of a crossword puzzle. Making a word is a must. Making a good, obscure, or interesting word is optional. Actually, making good, obscure, or interesting words is probably one of the surest ways to fail.

The details change depending on the specific variant of cross4 currently being played. There’s Solitaire, where your objective is solely to score lots of points. There’s the Heads-Down varietal, where everybody labors over their own grid until someone makes a fatal mistake. The most interesting modes are Two-Player Duel and Elimination, both of which lean into the format’s natural idiosyncrasies. Basically, at regular intervals, everybody swaps grids. This transforms cross4 from a relatively straightforward affair into the sort of game where you can lay traps. Oh, and write good, obscure, or interesting words that your fellow players might struggle to use. Then again, such flippant play might come around to bite you in the hindquarters.

I mention idiosyncrasies. This game has plenty of them. Like the sprawling crossword space, with its multiple grid-spanning openings that are a real PITA to bridge. Or that issue’s compounding factor, the fact that there are seven dice, not quite enough to actually span such wide gaps, necessitating that players first build out a few shorter words. Planning ahead is a must, but planning ahead is hard as hell. And I say that as somebody who likes crossword-making games.

No less idiosyncratic, but far less confounding, are the dice themselves. Printed off-center and slightly scuffed, these rounded hexahedrons are the perfect imitation of what one might discover in an old copy of — well, in an old copy of Boggle. They feel like something you’d uncover in a grandparent’s game closet, although they’re tuned in a way that many old letter-dice games were not. For one thing, you’re actually guaranteed at least one vowel per roll.

But it’s not their tuning, but their sheer power as forgeries that make them stand out. Did Holland roll them through sand to achieve the optimal degree of rasp? Did she instruct her printer to make sure some of the bubbles were printed that crucial millimeter off center? They aren’t even quite the same size. In the era of machine-milled cellulose sponge, that’s more impressive than total uniformity. I hope it doesn’t come across as too dismissive to say that I’m tempted to keep the dice and chuck the game.

Dismissive or not, that’s my feeling here. Playing cross4, it was hard to shake off its redolence to another nostalgia-laden project: UFO 50, the 2024 collection of video games created in part by Hot Streak, Spots, and Scape Goat designer Jon Perry. Setting aside their obvious differences in scale, UFO 50 also adopted the limitations of an older format, in its case the systems, graphics, and inputs of 8-bit video games, in order to create something that was recognizably displaced in time, but also gifted the advantages of modern design principles. The result in that case was many things. Throwback archaeology. A meditation on the swift passage of video game tech. Even a bit of a flex for some of today’s most talented game creators.

With cross4, Holland does something similar. The rather large distinction, though, is that cross4 is a bijou, a displaced trinket, which evokes time-worn aesthetics and sensibilities, makes a few small corrections to how many of these games were busted right out of the box, but then settles into a series of games that are, at best, fine. To keep up the comparison to UFO 50, it’s more Block Koala than Party House.

The short version is that cross4 comes across as more of a vanity project than as something most people are liable to seek out, but I can’t deny that many of its smaller touches charmed me nonetheless. The grid-swapping modes, for example, and how they transform the gameplay from pure frustration to an ever-evolving minefield, or the way the rules are printed on the back of the box rather than afforded a booklet, or the dice. Above all, the dice. To handle them is to remember something we played long ago. It was not a very good game, but we sprawled on our bellies atop shag carpets, and the house smelled of stew and dog hair, and the television was always somehow tuned to 24-hour Matlock.

Which is to say, thanks for the memories, cross4. As for the crosswords… eh.

 

A complimentary copy of Cross4 was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Most people know Zach Barth as the founder of Zachtronics, purveyor of digital playthings such as SpaceChem, Opus Magnum, and EXAPUNKS. But we are not most people. Instead, we’re here to speak with Zach about his analog games: The Lucky Seven (with the Depot expansion), Chemistry Set, and the scratch-off puzzle pack Zach Attack! That’s right. We’ve got the good stuff.

Listen here or download here. Timestamps can be found after the jump.

TIMESTAMPS

00:30 — Zach Barth, the greatest puzzle maker alive? and the terminology of puzzles vs. games
9:10 — actually introducing Zach Barth
23:25 — getting into tabletop games via The Lucky Seven
48:30 — Chemistry Set
1:01:45 — at last, Zach Attack!
1:58:25 — can Dan fix Zach? (No. He is perfect just the way he is.)

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

💾

There’s history to Deckers. Pedigree. Richard Wilkins — better known by the epithet Ricky Royal, the name under which he’s created a bunch of incredible solitaire modes for games that wouldn’t otherwise suit solo play in the slightest — designed a ditty called Renegade back in 2018. Before the plague years. Before the world’s billionaires started cramming robo-slop down our throats and calling it nourishment.

Before, in other words, cyberpunk felt quite so urgent. Back when the genre was a throwback to ’80s techno acceleration and not ’20s techno throttling.

Deckers is Renegade. That’s the short version. The slightly longer version is that Deckers is Renegade, but decoupled from the vulture who acquired it along with the rest of the Victory Point Games catalog, and with the expansion packs folded in, some additional clarity and development, and a new coat of paint. It won’t persuade anybody who didn’t get along with the original, but it’s just as fresh as ever. And as infuriating.

Like all cyberpunk games, Deckers is about jacking into an encrypted network that’s inexplicably neon. There’s some technobabble about a supercomputer run amok, how society’s last chance hinges on a team of keyboard jockeys sticking it to the man by typing stuff on the internet. But we all know why we’re really here. To kill Grok. To murder OpenAI. To finally figure out how to remove the smart features from Windows 11. If we play our cards right, to fry the dopamine-jack in Sam Altman’s head.

The game’s first impressions are… let’s call them “mixed.” The network is a blob of color-coded hex grids. The game’s terminology is heavy with “SMCs” and “sparks” and “ghosts.” There are heaps of actions, and modifiers to those actions depending on the color of the icons you trigger them with.

And then there’s the mission structure. Scenarios in Deckers aren’t scenarios so much as they are accumulations of objectives. First you pick which SMC you’ll be decking. (See? I told you there would be terminology.) Then you populate that SMC with objective cards. These range from the simple to the confounding. Sometimes they’re clear enough, like generating a network keycode by installing four different programs on your decker’s entry point. Other times, they tip over the edge into a nihilism of iconography. A couple plays ago, we flipped the final objective and discovered we were meant to create a “mirror map.” Every server on the table, all five of them, were to have an identical configuration of programs, both friendly and rival, with at least one program of the four primary types. Such a goal might be easy or might be hard, depending on how well the mission had been going up to that point and whether the current SMC would add and/or shift lots of nasty counterintrusion programs, but it will never seem like anything other than the sort of busywork a teacher hands out to their fifth-grade students when there’s only forty-five minutes left in the day and she’s come down with another migraine, dammit.

Now, you might be thinking that I’m not putting Deckers on the strongest footing. You’d be right. But I want to emphasize this point. Deckers is not for the faint of heart. Despite resembling Pandemic in a few superficial ways, it’s crowded with icons and ideas and actions and colors and special powers and objectives that require a few re-reads before they make a lick of sense.

But it’s also modular. In the case of our misbegotten mirror map, we goggled at the objective’s preposterousness for a bit, then drew a much more reasonable replacement. There are loads of customization options. And as much as I’m can grow irritable at a game asking me to set its difficulty level rather than providing me with an intended experience, I can’t help but appreciate the way missions unspool on their own, coughing up new problems according to some imperceptible aleatory logic.

More than that, the game’s thicket of information is a not-insignificant part of its appeal. To play Deckers is to step into the boots of a troubleshooter. Where most cooperative and solitaire games present a puzzle, Deckers presents a problem. Often that problem is multilayered, difficult to discern, and seems impossible at first glance.

The other thing Deckers provides, though, is a toolkit. More than a toolkit. An entire tool shed, full of power appliances and extension cords and, oh, here’s a weed whacker and some fertilizer. Maybe a pool pump just in case.

At its most basic level, Deckers is a deck-building game, although like everything else this is an inadequate description. It’s not so much about deck-building as it is about deck-renovating. You have fifteen cards when the game opens. You’ll have fifteen when it ends. In the middle, you can purchase cards that swap into the place of previous cards. This keeps the game pacey, not to mention erases the usual bloat that accompanies deck-building.

What’s more, those cards put in the work. Before long, the network will be speckled with color. Programs, the little round tokens, each have their own functions, such as attacking enemy sparks (red and yellow), permitting easier movement through cyberspace (blue), or rearranging other bits of data (green). Programs eventually transform into installations, the larger boxy tokens, which are even better at attacking, permitting movement, or rearranging data. Sometimes they’re so much better that you can teleport around the network at will or project a ghost image of your character to another position entirely.

That network, meanwhile, becomes textured not because of any inherent topography, but thanks to the addition and movement of the game’s various threats and the consequences of your activities. Perhaps an information superhighway of blue and green tokens will take shape, allowing your deckers to race along it with impunity, shuttling programs where they need to go and dousing fires wherever they appear. Or maybe an incursion by the SMC will transform a corner of the network into a minefield of enemy sparks and guardians, necessitating a gradual campaign of reclamation lest they blossom, Pandemic-style, into an early loss.

The same goes for the game’s underlying problems and their various solutions. It’s rare that one of these problems will present a straight line from A to Z. Instead, the game meanders. In one mission, when a corporate decker appeared to ice our asses, we were prohibited from entering his space at all. How then, could we beat him? We eventually set up a green installation, ghosted into his space, pushed viruses into position from neighboring hexes, and then engaged in an epic roll-off. Everyone at the table was invested. Attention-wise, sure, but also because they had been churning their decks to find the cards that could massage the outcome of our climactic roll. The solution was messy, inelegant, and harried by ancillary problems. It took coordination, not to mention required everyone to work to mitigate the game’s chancier elements.

In the process, it became closer to real-world problems and their real-world solutions than most board games manage. We weren’t solving some graceful puzzle. We were patching over a memory leak and hoping it wouldn’t crash the whole network. Are those things? I have no idea. But that’s what Deckers feels like.

Hey. I never realized it until this moment, but “Deckers” is a pun. Decking-in. Deck-building. Heh.

To be clear, Deckers never fully escapes its issues. Even at its best, it can grow fiddly with all those tokens, and there’s always the chance that a new objective will prove just an action or two shy of being solvable. Even the deck-building feels flashy but isn’t wholly interesting, more about fine-tuning cards into better versions of themselves than altering a deck into something new.

But maybe that’s how it ought to be. Even when it was called Renegade, Deckers was something of a throwback. I’m old enough to remember when the prevailing wisdom for cooperative games was that they should only be winnable one in three plays. Nowadays, most board games are tuned to provide a solid first session, because in all likelihood that’s all they’re ever going to get. The unfortunate trickle-down is that most cooperative games are easy, which is to say dull, which is to say they’re boring.

There are moments when Deckers is boring, but it’s a very different sort of boring. It’s not the boredom of tedium; it’s the boredom that arises when a problem is inscrutable and so our mammalian instincts tell us to hibernate rather than facing the issue with our whole chest. It’s like hearing that human civilization is killing the oceans or running out of freshwater. Why worry about that stuff? Easier to take a nap.

In a way, that’s what makes Deckers worthwhile. Because these folks could have taken a nap, too. Just look at them. Some of the game’s characters are classic cyberpunk. Leiko Mori is a chick in a leather vest illuminated by purple LEDs. Oshin Noro is more or less a samurai. Two of them are twins with USB-Zs plugged into their ears. But there’s an appropriate shlubbiness to the rest of the cast. Tilda Sweet cut my hair once. Monty Quantum is the guy who mains a druid. Hettie Magnetic is prediabetic. They’re a little more into body modification than the average Joe, but they’re surprisingly ordinary. It’s just that they’re willing to put their principles into practice when it comes to AI slop. Their solutions are messy workarounds. Sometimes they fall apart. And sometimes I cheat by drawing a different objective card because the last one read like a word problem. Hey, that’s why I play board games. Because they’re ours.

That’s all to say that Deckers is something special. Not only in spite of its problems, but because of them. In credit to them. This is a compact, dense game, produced and presented on a budget, and I like it all the better for that too. It’s a big rowdy mess that sometimes falls apart at the edges, and in fact is never better than when you’re asked to tug at its fraying strands. Down with the slop. Up with the folk who decided it was better to keep their avatar paunchy. Welcome to the revolution, pal.

 

A complimentary copy of Deckers was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Whether in video games or board games, there’s a certain zen — is it okay to call it zen? — that washes over you when you only have one hit-point left. Now it’s just you and your skills. How smartly you can dodge. How precisely you can block. You become an agent of grace, dancing across the screen or tabletop. The playing field has been leveled. Every mistake is now the same as every other mistake. Just you and your abilities and those key-mappings and—

And now you’re dead.

One-Hit Heroes by AC Atienza and Connor Reid starts from the idea that, well, look, it’s right there in the title. One hit and you’re dead. It’s a fantastic idea. One they fudge a little bit, which is to be expected, and one where the execution sometimes feels a little thinner than it might have. But the idea never stops being fantastic.

If you’ve played a board game before, you probably know how it starts. Everybody picks a hero.

Scratch that. First you need to pick how many people to play with. Because the thing about One-Hit Heroes, the seedy underbelly of the whole shebang, is that the box says it accommodates up to four players, but that’s only half correct. At a technical level this thing plays with up to four people, sure. Strictly speaking, it can be played. But at a gameplay level, and more importantly as something satisfying, it’s really optimized for two. That includes solitaire play, which is effectively a dual-handed mode. But with any further heroes than that, it distends and bursts. Best of luck actually getting in a hit when the game’s automated boss keeps stripping everybody of cards before they get another turn in.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s head back to where we started.

Everybody picks a hero. There are four in the box, each with their own set of cards. One-Hit Heroes is an economical little thing; rather than offering a slew of abilities, everything about the game’s four heroes comes back to their starting decks.

The Bow Slinger, for example, shoots a bunch of arrows. Arrows are bigger than bullets, but in accordance with Hollywood logic their size also means they deal more damage than bullets. That said, they only allow a single shot each. Arrows, unlike bullets, are not reusable. (I know, I know. Just go with it.) So the Bow Slinger is all about a few plinks of high damage, plus an ability to refill his quiver from his burn pile once per battle.

You might think that a Bow Slinger wouldn’t be all that different from a Sniper. But the Sniper, you see, is all about keeping low. Actually, the Sniper is also about dealing damage that isn’t tied directly to weapon cards, instead rolling the hero die to dole out some variable amount of damage. She’s a sneaky character, in other words, but also a squirrelly one. A bit self-serving. Unwilling to stick her neck out.

Or there’s the Bunny Ninja. Yes, the Bunny Ninja. Once again following One-Hit Heroes’ rule of cool, she uses katanas and ninja stars. By the way, they’re rapid-fire and travel faster than bullets, which is why she can chain moves together faster than her companions. The Flame Lancer, meanwhile, is all about heat management. He spends energy to amp up his attacks. Also, he tends to draw a lot of enemy attention. After all, he’s a Flame Lancer. That’s the guy I’d shoot first, too.

The format for the game is that each session is divided into multiple small boss battles. Starting with that initial deck, you face off against an enemy. These are colorful and inventive. One fight will pit you against a gang of robots, each one stepping into the smoking boots whose previous occupant you vacated with fire and arrow and katana. Next you’ll square off against a friendly barkeep who’s trying to drink you under the table, or a crate-bot that hides behind a lot of crates.

These battles function like miniature deck-builder games. Except you aren’t building your deck, not right now; you’re just playing through the dozen or so cards you have at that moment. There are only four types of cards, just enough to provide some texture but not so many that anybody will get lost in their options. Weapons deal damage. Actions do things. Equipment gets equipped and sticks around between rounds. And reactions happen when it isn’t your turn. See? Simple.

The highlight of these battles is the aggro system. Whenever you deal damage to the enemy, you physically remove their hit points — there are two types, light and heavy, which necessitate distinct attacks to remove — and shift them over to your board. The higher your aggro, the more likely it is that the boss will notice you and/or attack you and/or actually deal damage. High aggro is testy, always running the risk of drawing fire. Low aggro isn’t necessarily safe, but it’s safer.

Meanwhile, those bosses are handled by the breeziest possible system, flipping a single card per turn to trigger attacks or tweak your aggro, but you’re vulnerable enough that this is enough to feel alive and threatening. Because, yeah, you only have one hit-point. Fortunately, that hit-point is hidden behind your equipment. At any given time you can have two equipment cards attached to your character. Eventually you might have more in your deck, ready to be equipped. Taking a hit means you either trash a piece of equipment or die. Equipment, then, pulls double-duty as ongoing bonuses and armor. Sometimes both at once, or sometimes as armor that provides a cool bonus when it gets shot off, but always as another crucial piece of your arsenal.

And then, when the battle ends, you get new cards. If this is your first time through this sequence of bosses, you open up little card packs that are themed around the boss you just pummeled. If not, you deal randomly from the stuff you’ve already unlocked. Everybody takes two cards. At its best, this opens up One-Hit Heroes to some surprisingly in-depth conversations about which pieces of kit will complement not only your hero’s playstyle, but also the group at large. Do you need more equipment to block damage? More weapons? Actions for burning off aggro or drawing through your deck? Despite the game’s simplicity, there’s a pleasant breadth of verbs and effects in those cards.

You pick your two starting equipment cards. Shuffle everything else into a new deck. Time for the next boss.

This rhythm is appealing. Battles are short, but not Tag Team short. Maybe ten minutes apiece, plus a few extra minutes for really involved skirmishes. Drafting new tools is similarly brisk, but impactful as well, and you’re flung immediately into the next fight to test out your choices. It’s surprisingly solid. Not because it looked bad on the outside or anything like that, but because we’ve reached the point where there are heaps of these things and most of them don’t stand apart from the crowd. Once it gets moving, One-Hit Heroes feels like a sleek bullet train, always hurtling forward.

The main point in the game’s disfavor — apart from the bald-faced lie that is its player count — is its stinginess. I’ve already invoked Tag Team, Gricha German and Corentin Lebrat’s take on the auto-battler. That game also mashes two heroes together to produce a degree of recombinance, and its central pleasures are found in discovering how to riff its characters off one another. The same is true here, but rather than Tag Team’s ten characters, this box only includes four. As for the bosses, it probably sounds generous to say that there are eight, but the reality is that there are only two groups to defeat, each with four bosses that appear in sequence. Which is another way of saying that there are two levels. That isn’t terrible; there’s room to tinker, especially once you’ve unlocked all the items and start drafting from a wider pool. Better yet, both levels are interesting, with unique challenges aplenty. But it doesn’t work in One-Hit Heroes’ favor that it feels closer to a demo than a full-fledged product.

And “product” is precisely how it feels. This is the sort of game that wants to be sold piecemeal to those who get hooked on its first sampling. I have no idea whether that’s the actual plan, but already there are two smaller sets that add a dedicated (as in non-two-hander) solitaire mode and another string of bosses.

Look, I get it. Margins are thin. But I would have preferred to see a happy middle ground. In part because One-Hit Heroes is good, confronting the player with constant stressors as they struggle to stay alive while also getting in the odd hit and managing their aggro. It’s smart stuff! But in such a saturated industry it’s rare to earn a second impression, and I have my doubts that most players are going to stick with this system long enough to give it another try. With a bit of extra punch in this opening box, I’d be more tempted to return. Instead, I feel like it’s appraising the value of my furniture.

Still, there’s a lot to like here. As a shorter-form boss battler, it stands apart from many of its peers. There’s basically no up-front investment. We pick characters, shuffle a deck, and we’re in the thick of it. Any decisions will come either during the fight itself or once we’ve landed the killing blow. Even then, the choices are pleasantly bite-sized. I just wish it had offered a few additional mouthfuls.

 

A complimentary copy of One-Hit Heroes was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Another day, another cube-rails-adjacent title — although Gold Country, being designed by Reiner Knizia, is decidedly crisper and more rules-light than yesterday’s Stellar Ventures. This one is based on Spectaculum, a game about traveling circuses. I’ve never played Spectaculum, so I can’t comment on how the game may or may not have changed; but in this format, Gold Country offers a slick presentation and some crystal-clear speculation. It’s far from my favorite Knizia, but it’s such a buttery smooth experience that it’s hard to imagine turning a session down.

When Gold Country kicks off its private gold rush, there are four mines at opposite ends of the shared valley. Their value is five coins per share. Everyone at the table holds one share per mine, plus a secret share that won’t pay out until the end of the game, but which serves to ensure that no one mine gets abandoned entirely. At least not in the four-player game.

Right away, the appeal of Gold Country makes itself known through a certain clarity. The valley is packed with tiles — four types on the base map, a few more on the advanced side of the board — and despite being seeded at random they’re all visible from the very beginning. Some increase the value of the mine that places a claim on them; others do the opposite, turning up empty pans. Some show a pair of nuggets that will pay out two dollars for every held certificate. Their opposite is a collapse, which costs two dollars per share. Woe be unto the player who can’t pay.

Turns are simple. You have three claim tokens to place on the map, inching across the board to raise or lower those mines’ values, or perhaps pay out or charge the owners of various shares. The wrinkle is that your claims are drawn at random from a sack. Even if you hold five shares of Bidwell’s Bar, well, too bad, you might only draw orange and purple this turn. It’s possible to swap out a claim with one sitting aside the board. This is the “hardware store,” and it’s easy to forget it’s there. Don’t do that. Forget, I mean.

So you place your claims, thus adjusting share prices. Eventually mines will collect gold veins, higher-valued spots that also add bandits to the sack. These function like wild claims, although they don’t award the token to any particular mine, instead dumping it off to the side of the board. This establishes them as both excellent claim-jumpers for blocking a rival’s favored mine from growing too fat, and hired goons who preempt any negative sums or cave-ins from affecting your own preferred digs.

And then, of course, there are the stocks. Under normal circumstances you’re only permitted to purchase or sell two shares a turn. With enough players at the table, this puts some fear into each purchase. Let’s say you buy two shares of Yuba Mine at four dollars per, a reasonable sum thanks to some sabotage. You hope to zip over to a cluster of rich takings nearby, doubling your value before selling off the shares.

Except this is where the game’s social portion comes into play. Knizia has always been a master of contrasting simple rules with entangled social spaces, and Gold Country is no different. Before your next turn comes around, everybody else at the table gets their say. Like you, they have only partial control over their claims. Maybe they’ll focus their energies elsewhere, massaging stock prices to their own advantage. But it’s also possible they’ll lift their paper shields to reveal bandits and race Yuba Mine to that nearby vein. Or even the requisite purple claim tokens, but rather than securing the gold, they instead send the company on a wild goose-chase in the other direction. Maybe even straight into some collapses. Now the shares you bought at four dollars have come to cost you quite a bit more.

The result is a game that can be played in silence, but thrives once everyone realizes they can get rowdy. It’s like some of Knizia’s other titles in that respect. Ever sat in on a boisterous session of Tigris & Euphrates? Hollered in somebody’s face over a draw in Ra? I’d recommend it. There are no provisions in Gold Country for players to interact directly, apart from your God-given right to inform the table that such-and-such deserves to have those four shares diminish in value, and, oh look, there’s the perfect place to do it. And with those exact tokens you just revealed! What a thing to see.

Like I said earlier, Gold Country is slick. It goes down smooth. Which isn’t the same as saying it’s a perfect game.

Most of my hangups have to do with the advanced side of the board. This one is bisected by a large river, although in practice this isn’t much of an impediment, since you can tunnel under it or ferry over it. Meanwhile, some of the new token types are more hassle than they’re worth. Gems award five dollars apiece when the game ends, giving players cause to hurry over to certain spots. Dynamite awards additional claims to whomever picks it up, threatening the rest of the table with much larger turns that don’t quite match the measured pace of the game.

My larger reservation has to do with the back half of the game, when those four mines have staked out territory and are now mopping up the last few veins. This is always something of an anticlimax, especially when there isn’t much left over for some of the companies to do. I don’t want to oversell this as a major problem, but those wide-open early moments tend to grow muted, even hurried, as the game wears on.

But that’s a small thing. Even though Gold Country isn’t my favorite Knizia, or anywhere in the top twenty, it’s lovely to see another lost gem get dredged out of the muck and given a good rinsing in the river. This one may not be the largest gold nugget out there, but it’s a nugget all the same. Between the game’s clear stock appraisals, social uncertainties, and crisp language, this is one of those stock games I’d be happy to play more or less any time — and with hardly any need to brush up on the rules.

 

A prototype copy of Gold Country was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

The forthcoming Stellar Ventures is nothing if not wildly ambitious. Its creator, Pontus Nilsson, has designed both cube rails and 18xx titles, and is now mashing those systems together — along with the faintest whiff of 4X space opera — into a game that sees joint-stock firms crisscrossing entire star systems with logistical networks.

Also, the space shuttles sometimes rust. Just in case you were wondering what you were getting into.

For those who haven’t played cube rails or 18xx, first of all, STAY AWAY FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. Thanks to train games, I’ve seen families bid farewell to spouses and parents, attended game groups in open bewilderment at the disappearance of old friends, and witnessed youngsters develop a twisted sense for how capitalism operates.

But if you must persist, Stellar Ventures represents a slender crossover in a brand-new Venn Diagram. The first circle, cube rails, is a genre of sky-high abstractions about nascent train networks that tend to play quickly, feature lots of auctions, and obviously include a zillion cubes. I’ve even written about a few over the years. 18xx, on the other hand, is a series of dense five-hour-plus simulations that transforms people into their worst selves. I’ve declined to write about the things mostly out of consideration for my family’s safety, although if we’re ever in a secure location I’d be happy to share my misadventures trying to tackle the genre.

Stellar Ventures is a blend of the two, although I’d put it 80/20 in favor of cube rails. The gist is that players adopt the role of investors and managing partners in interstellar corporations. These corporations are principally interested in transit and extractive mining, enterprises that go hand-in-hand, just like here on Earth. At any given time, you can hold shares in many companies, either doubling and tripling down on the fortunes of a single company or building a diverse portfolio that accrues smaller but less risky payouts. Meanwhile, holding the most shares in any given company will confer a managing stake, letting you choose the placement of its stations and colonies.

For aficionados of cube rails, this probably sounds like business as usual. The considerations are warm in their familiarity. Each sector can only accommodate so many stations, making it prohibitively expensive for second- and third-comers to build over already-occupied territory. At times, the proceedings take on the tone of a race, everyone rushing to push their favored companies onto high-value planets. There’s even some room for sabotage, especially if you snag a company share on the cheap and build a few stations to nowhere. But for the most part, you want your companies to thrive.

It’s the details that set Stellar Ventures apart from its terrestrial peers. For example, it isn’t enough to establish networks. Colonies and stations establish your company’s mining score, an overall tally that sets their base value. But they also need to move their goods to other worlds. This is where ships come in. By ordering rockets, a company’s shipping tally also ticks upward. When dividends pay out, it’s the lower tally between mining and shipping that sets the amount.

Okay, that doesn’t sound too bad. But this simple binary between mining and shipping can be deceptive. The ships themselves are volatile. Over time, those single-digit shuttles give way to two-points shippers, then three, then five, then eight. But at regular intervals, the invention of a new ship will obsolete a lower-value ship. Just like that, all the ships in your hangars are scrap metal. Devotees of 18xx will recognize this as “locomotive rusting,” an idea mined in multiple titles. When spacefaring technology leaps forward, it’s entirely possible that some companies will get swept into the dustbin, their older ships disappearing entirely and their shipping score bottoming out. At least until they scrounge up some investment money to upgrade their fleet, anyway.

At times, these moments are painfully punitive. Stellar Ventures is a rather phase-laden game, with companies and then individual investors each taking a turn. It’s entirely possible for one company to engineer a revolution in rocketry that tanks the dividends of the next company in line. This is nothing new to either cube rails or 18xx, as both systems are built on letting players live with their errors. Rather than offering catch-up mechanisms or rubber bands, the rich get richer and missteps send players tumbling into a debt spiral. Still, this lands differently in a two-and-a-half-hour title like Stellar Ventures than your usual single-hour cube rails game.

But this brings us to some of the game’s more interesting innovations. Because while it’s still possible to find oneself in command of a failing company, here there are a few avenues for attaching zero-g suspensors to one’s bootstraps.

The first is the idea of alien tech. As your companies explore the sector, they’ll come across many alien worlds. Some of them belong to an ultra-advanced race that offers The Agreement. The Agreement — which should always be invoked with due gravity so that everyone at the table can hear its capitalization — is a devil’s bargain that awards significant advantages but also threatens to rob your company of any value upon the session’s conclusion.

First, the advantages. There’s an immediate cash payout for every share in the Agreement-making company, and that payout only gets higher if you’ve made additional contacts with the alien race before shaking their tentacles. This imbues a company’s expansion with real tension, especially if its profits are tapering off and investors are hoping for an immediate buyout. As the managing partner, declining to sign The Agreement, whether because you have other plans for the company or out of hope of reaching yet another alien world to increase your share value, can be met with jeers from your fellow stakeholders.

And then there’s the aforementioned alien technology. These are green cubes that are awarded to the players who explore alien worlds — and to be clear, I’m speaking about individual players rather than the companies they control. Alien tech can be traded for all sorts of benefits. Up to two cubes can be invested into a company to increase its shipping value, declawing the threat of rusting shuttles. Or they can invent wormhole technology to allow a company to warp across the map rather than paying for every intervening space. It’s even possible to upgrade your settled worlds, doubling their mining value, or launder them for cold hard cash.

The tradeoff, naturally, is significant. When the game concludes, the final value of everybody’s shares is calculated for one big payout. These are highly lucrative, the sum of a company’s shipping and mining values combined. But if a company that signed The Agreement failed to best the alien race on the mining track, their shares are directly claimed by the aliens — and pay out for a single measly credit instead of their usual value.

Frankly, this is a stroke of brilliance. The Agreement quickly becomes one of your most potent gambles, weapons, and looming threats all at once. The alien race is always on the move, ticking upward on the mining track at regular but unguessable increments. An over-leveraged shareholder might sign The Agreement for an infusion of cash that can be spent on more lucrative investments, or a tycoon might bet it all on a long shot. Either way, it provides high drama even in the later game.

Other elements lean into the game’s sci-fi setting, although with some squinting you can make out the railway ties. There are large “mega-earths” that welcome multiple companies and grow in value as they attract more investors, tax zones that encompass wealthier worlds but demand periodic payouts (i.e. dopey libertarian “state violence”), and, of course, the fact that a company might learn how to travel through stellar nebulae in order to bypass the competition.

Of course, the other side to this coin is that Stellar Ventures is denser and more complicated than most cube rails titles, not to mention it takes twice as long on the table. Personally, though, I find the whole thing energizing. Nilsson does more than blend genres; in some ways, he shores up the chinks in their armor. It always feels like there’s something squirrelly to get up to. Is a company not putting shares up for sale? Engage in some boardroom politics to force their hand. Even better if you aren’t the one to pick up the latest stock. When it sells for a pittance, you can smirk as your target corp shifts from privately-held to minor status, the value of each individual share diluting substantially. Oopsie. Did I just ruin your dividends for the foreseeable future? I’ll make it up to you by seizing a controlling interest in your other company.

Did I mention that Stellar Ventures is a game for vultures and rats? No? Okay: Stellar Ventures is a game for vultures and rats. And it rocks.

For the most part, anyway. I already mentioned the game’s phasiness and complexity and playtime. Personally, those are minor compared to the shenanigans it permits. As a game about putting cubes on hexes, it’s intriguing. But as a game about making half-understood treaties with technologically superior aliens, shafting your competitors with turn orders and negotiations alike, and not having to look at a single train engine, it’s unparalleled. Even if your shuttles keep rusting in the absence of oxygen or moisture.

Stellar Ventures launches on Kickstarter tomorrow.

 

A prototype copy of Stellar Ventures was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

On an intellectual level, I understand it would be terrifying to attend a cinema where all the projections have pushed through the big screen to consume the moviegoers. But as an intellectual there’s some appeal to the prospect, because in preparation for such an occurrence I now only attend exhibitions of Brian De Palma’s erotic thrillers. Rawr.

Sadly, the mortals of Spooktacular were in attendance at a B-movie horror festival on Halloween night. Now they’ve been reduced to cheap theater snacks. And not the sexy kind of snacks.

The first thing you should know about Spooktacular is that it’s a big capricious romp. Entire handfuls of guests are moved at once, precluding even the pretense of a plan. Monsters are sent ping-ponging through corridors and theaters, transforming each new turn into a fresh conundrum. Pieces you’ve never seen before will appear on the board, signaling some goofball outcome you can only guess at. Or request clarification about, I suppose, although that’s boorish behavior for such an event. Just go with it. Let the tides carry you where they listeth. If that holds no appeal, maybe seek fairer pastures.

But the second thing you should know about Spooktacular is that it was designed by D. Brad Talton, Jr., creator of such titles as Millennium Blades, Exceed, BattleCON, and Pixel Tactics. And what do those titles all hold in common?

Erm, yes, anime babes. But what else? Okay, sure, a heaping of nostalgia for arcade cabinet fighting games. And? There we go: lots and lots of characters.

True to its heritage, Spooktacular positively brims with characters. Also character. There are twenty monsters in the box, each freshly Ring-girled off the big screen, and each sporting their own approach to cinephile cuisine. For your first session, you’ll probably select one of the simpler characters. (Rated E for Easy.) Such as Doombox, a sentient boombox straight out of a white-flight Blaxploitation flick, with a tusked mouth in place of a cassette deck and various tracks that whir into tune when it snacks on guests of the correct color. Or the wandering Outlander, his hapless victims pressed into service as a murder posse. Or my favorite of the easy characters, Remover the Fitness Demon. Her special power is a weight-loss plan. Only the way she sheds those cottage-cheese thighs is by viciously dismembering the people trapped in her room. Nine pounds in two seconds! Beat that, Ozempic!

Because this is a Talton game, part of the beauty of Spooktacular is that all of these characters make use of the same rules. Even as you progress through trickier characters (Rated I for Intermediate) and into the game’s upper reaches (Rated A for Advanced), the bump in difficulty has more to do with how much combo-building your monster will have to pull off rather than an actual linear increase in complexity.

Consider Hell Chef. He’s a chef from hell. His special power revolves around the preparation and serving of special dishes. These are effectively time-delayed landmines he can scatter in his wake. But because he serves dishes at the beginning of his turn and prepares them at the end, there’s an entire round between courses. Rival monsters have plenty of time to duck out of the way before his Tentacle Tartar steals a wad of their points. Hence, much of his strategy has to do with cornering or locking down those opposing monsters. He isn’t more complicated to understand. His moves are just tougher to pull off.

How about the Beasts of Business — sorry, the Bea$t$ of Bu$ine$$. These jerks place their tokens not on the main board, but on the scoring track. Now when any monster reaches the corresponding tally, they become “scareholders” in this gang’s twisted game. Sometimes that means losing or gaining points. Other times it means chowing down on multiple theatergoers. Point is, there’s something new and inventive around every corner, the work of a master designer reveling in every single corner of his creation.

At the same time, these monsters all function according to the same logic. Most of their cards are identical. They all scare guests to rearrange the composition of adjacent rooms and score points. They all move between locales to pursue the juiciest morsels. And they all devour guests to create sets that can be exchanged for point-winning movie tickets. Those sets, by the way, are red, pink, blue, green, and yellow meeples, but we told our twelve-year-old they were children, teenagers, horror aficionados, long-suffering spouses, and grandparents who are probably only in attendance because they bought a moviepass subscription and they’re going to wring every dime out of the deal. She made quite the exclamation of disgust at that, then directed her animatronic guest show host to chow down on three of them.

Spooktacular, in case you hadn’t already guessed it, functions best when everybody works tooth, nail, and claw to win, but doesn’t invest much emotional energy into who walks away from the buffet with the tallest portion. It’s the kind of game where you can lay painstaking plans, maneuver everything into position, and then watch as one errant move from an oblivious opponent throws a wrench into your clockwork, and scores twice as many points in the process. It’s light and fluffy and not especially filling. It’s theater popcorn with so much butter that it soaks through the bottom of the bag and stains the knee of your jeans.

Which isn’t to say it’s a perfect experience. It’s a little long-winded, especially at higher counts, and its more involved turns can stretch on once it gets going. The same capriciousness that keeps the rules light and strategy distant also prevents players from evaluating their turns in advance. Each new turn requires a fresh assessment of the playing field. This can nudge its massacre into more of a torture session.

(If you want a really niche quibble, one that I must preface is absolutely not serious, I also wish it had been a little more based on mancala! Spooktacular would have to change very little, and there are even a few monsters like the Killer Car and the haunted pinball table Devil’s Game that approach it with mancala’s sowing sensibilities. With a firmer unifying mechanism as its foundation, it would probably move more rapidly, not to mention feature fewer underutilized corners. But, again, this isn’t an actual critique, just a brief fantasy, and a fantasy that has nothing to do with Brian De Palma erotic thrillers.)

Even with a few scattered problems, Spooktacular stands out as a strong contender for a beer-and-pretzels evening. It’s the little touches that make it so good. The references behind the monsters. The texture to how each one acts and moves and snacks on human tendons. Even the way the scoring track is presented as cop cars wheeling around the block to respond to the theater’s distress call. Brad Talton has always been a master of creating wild casts of characters, and Spooktacular showcases him in his element. This is the sort of game I could see myself settling down to play every Halloween.

 

A complimentary copy of Spooktacular was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Now here’s something I haven’t seen before: a collection of six scratch-off board games designed by puzzle master Zach Barth. That’s a sentence that keeps getting more intriguing as it goes, especially after The Lucky Seven proved one of the most reliable single-deck solitaire games on my shelf.

What I didn’t expect was the smell. I don’t know how scratch-offs are made, especially scratch-offs as nice as the ones in this pack. These are hardly the state fair scratch-offs from my childhood. They still produce a royal mess — I’ve had to play with a little rubbish can next to the table — but that metallic scent has proven strangely addictive. Is this why people gamble away their life savings? Maybe I’d be tempted to do so as well, were the minigames in the state lottery this compelling. Let’s run through all six.

Danger! In the Temple of Malice

The first title is a nifty press-your-luck ditty that keeps the rules light, marking it as a perfect entry point to the collection. It’s basically a roll-and-move, except in place of rolls there are scratch-off boxes. You reveal the three numbers in a box, take those moves in any order — while potentially skipping any digits that strike you as unwise — and hopefully reach the end with as many medallions as possible.

That’s more or less the entire thing, although of course there are a few dueling considerations to keep in mind. The first is your own mortality. Stepping on three traps will spell an early end for your delve, and of course they’re everywhere. Some are duds, which is always a relief, especially near the end of the temple where it isn’t uncommon to see them clustered together. Meanwhile, you also need to reach the end of the track, navigate the occasional branching path, and take calculated risks to secure as much loot as possible.

Danger! is a simple thing, but it sets the tone for the entire collection. On the positive side, these are bite-sized puzzles that use familiar systems in fresh ways, often putting the limitations of their medium — laminated scratch-off pads — to work in interesting ways. It’s impressive to see how far afield Barth is able to wander within these constraints.

But there are more frustrating points as well. Danger! sets a precedent that will crop up more than once throughout the collection. Namely, the possibility of concluding a pad before it’s been exhausted. The box contains ten sheets per puzzle. That’s more generous than I expected, but it still turns them into a precious commodity. While the sheets’ limited quantity provides some additional motivation to consider each step before committing dime to ink, it can still prove deflating when an early misstep threatens to waste the entire puzzle.

Fortunately, that possibility is fairly remote in Danger! thanks to some eminently clear stakes. The ability to decline a move ensures you’re never cornered, even as it threatens to leave you a few steps short of the exit. On the whole, a solid opening gambit for the collection.

Task Force ’86

And then there’s the deep end of the pool. Also known as the ocean. Task Force ’86 is an homage to Battleship, but it understands that having too many empty spaces is boring, so instead it fills the sea with not only enemy ships to pick apart with long-range strikes but also a very good chance that every move will result in total disaster.

Your goal is to hit every segment of every enemy ship. There’s a rubric for these things: the enemy fleet contains one battlecruiser, which must be situated entirely in deep water, four shallow-water frigates, and a handful of cruisers and destroyers that might be scattered between the sheet’s halves. Missiles appear around these vessels’ edges, both hinting at their position and threatening to strike your fleet.

Speaking of your fleet, Task Force ’86 introduces a concept that will be present in nearly every other entry in the collection: a small number of bonus resources that can be spent at watershed moments to turn the tables in your favor. While you’re free to scour the ocean for enemy vessels however you see fit, this objective is made easier by your fleet of five friendlies. Your destroyers provide helicopter sorties, which reveal a bunch of cells in a line but stop as soon as they encounter a missile or submarine, while your aircraft carrier holds strike fighters that blow up an entire 3×3 square, and your missile cruiser packs a pair of counter-missiles. This last option is crucial. When revealed on the map, enemy missiles sink your ships, by extension stripping away your bonus powers. That is, unless you knock down the incoming attack.

The inclusion of these limited resources is what makes Task Force ’86 one of the collection’s most gripping puzzles. It’s a big leap from Danger!, complexity-wise, but the tradeoffs are significant. Every space feels dangerous, and it takes real contemplation to choose between launching an air strike or another reconnaissance mission. As puzzles go, this might even be my favorite entry in the whole package, a perfect blend of Minesweeper and the tension that comes from having to physically reveal each cell. This is the good stuff.

Max Midnight: Better Dead Than Never

Blending bad puns, Roger Moore-era James Bond, and aesthetics that remind me of nothing more than Apogee’s Secret Agent, Max Midnight is all about diving into an evil mastermind’s evil lair to undo their evil plot before a bunch of people are killed, evilly. He’s the hero we need in this day and age, that Max Midnight.

On the surface, Max Midnight is one of the collection’s chancier titles. You progress through the lair one floor at a time, scratching off doors to reveal what lies inside. The mission is to find enough punchcards to deactivate the control panel on the bottom floor, although this is complicated by henchmen and robots that first raise the floor’s suspicion and then shoot you dead. Early fails are a real possibility.

Except the inclusion of a few critical tools makes Max Midnight a fairly easy puzzle overall. Your agent has a limited number of bullets for shooting henchmen, plus a laser pen that can tunnel deeper into the base. Oh, and some X-ray glasses. This latter tool is my favorite, and it’s complemented by secret plans that can be stumbled upon as you search the base. Their effect is identical: you scratch off a door’s “window,” revealing what’s hidden inside without actually popping the hatch. This allows Max to perform some light surveillance before committing to any given door.

Meanwhile, there’s another rubric to consider. No two adjacent rooms contain the same feature. While an early misstep might see you bumbling into a henchman, this also proves a learning experience, since the doors up and down the hall are guaranteed to be secure. Until you reach the floors with the killer robots, anyway.

On the whole, Max Midnight is one of the more throwaway titles in the collection. It’s cute and whimsical, but lacks the dense thinkiness of its peers. Then again, it gets serious bonus points for the whole “look through the window” feature, which Barth will repeat in a later entry. I appreciate any game that leans into its inherent strengths, and letting players peek at a space without revealing it entirely is a very cool way to use the scratch-off concept.

Signal to Noise

Ah, more Minesweeper. Fortunately, I like Minsweeper (and nonograms). Also, it helps that Barth knows how to tinker with the formula to produce a puzzle that invokes the familiar while also feeling entirely new.

Signal to Noise is a digital heist. Most spaces contain cash; the rest represent ICE that threaten to trace your location. In Minesweeper terms, these are the bombs. But in a total inversion, only bombs reveal the adjacency of other bombs. Cash itself is only useful for scoring. When it comes to data-mining, they’re effectively blank.

The solution lies in the game’s limited resources. Here these are Data Miner and ICE Breaker programs, both of which allow the player to string together many reveals of either cash or ICE spaces, but only until they hit the other type. To once again use Minesweeper terms, it’s as though you could switch into “bomb mode” to click as many bombs as you want, but only until you accidentally hit an open cell again.

At the same time, you’re provided hints as to how many bombs are located in each row and column. Often, this is scant information. Most of the sheet’s grids are wide-open spaces, forcing some exploratory scrapes before the process of deduction can begin in earnest. This poses some interesting questions about how to manage risk and your programs, but it also reminded me of a crummy version of Minesweeper on an old TI-86+ where the first click wasn’t a freebie, often resulting in more frustration than anything.

Still, Signal to Noise is a strong option thanks largely to its final data vault. This is where Barth cuts loose with the odds, presenting a box that’s stacked with ICE on one side and cash on the other. This allows for some truly devious deduction, especially if you’ve preserved enough ICE Breakers to pick through the static. It’s a strong crescendo, although I was left wishing the entire sheet had leaned into that format rather than saving it for the very end.

Dragons Over Dunkirk

In a very nerdy collection, Dragons Over Dunkirk is the sheet that feels most like a thirteen-year-old boy’s mashup of two different sets of toys. It’s commandos versus dragons. Oh, and the commando squad includes a Playmobil firefighter.

This time, Barth adds some time pressure to great effect. Your squad has three days to wipe out six dragon nests, at least half of which are concealed in a cave system, using, you guessed it, some Minesweeper/Hexcells adjacency deduction. That three-day limit is the real highlight, refreshing each squaddie’s health and kit, but not their mortal coil if they happen to have shuffled off it.

And your tools are essential. The Commander carries an infrared scope that peeks at tiles — shades of Max Midnight! — while the Grenadier and Gunner decrease how many injuries the squad takes from a dragon attack. The firefighter, meanwhile, lets you skip over a space, useful for when you don’t want to weather an obvious ambush in between you and a target.

This time around, the cell-scratching is complicated by the fact that your squad absorbs the damage from any dragons they reveal. At the same time, only the most dangerous dragons will lead you to their nests. So the game quickly becomes about measuring how much punishment you can take before you start losing men.

It’s clever stuff, but this is also where the scratch-off gimmick starts to show its seams. There’s more clutter than in previous titles, and the logic puzzle isn’t quite as clean as its peers. In theory there’s an interesting tension between resting or pressing on, except it’s pretty obvious when your squad has taken enough of a beating. Still, it’s an honest-to-goodness squad management game on a scratch-off sheet. I’m less inclined to revisit this one in the future, but there’s still something impressive about how many systems Barth has folded together.

Capital Offense

Finally, there’s Capital Offense. Like everything else in Zach Attack!, this one contains fifty shades of press-your-luck, but its more notable inclusion is shape-building. As a corrupt stockbroker, you’re here to uncover various stocks and then scratch their shapes into four grids. Fill them in to get rich quick. It’s the American Dream as a scratch-off, which is as close as the collection gets to commentary.

Along the way, you might stumble across a baggie of coke or a rival broker. Those rivals turn the game over to a shootout minigame, where you reveal cells on a shot grid based on how many weapons you’ve purchased with your ill-gotten gains. This ups the pressure to fill in one of those scoring boxes early rather than spacing out your stock-shapes in a more sensical manner. As for the coke, it exists to let you fill in a box without worrying about the consequences. Because it’s coke.

My problem with Capital Offense has entirely to do with how its shapes are arranged. Rather than using polyominoes or other common shapes, these ones are all over the place. It feels like I should chart out their possible arrangements before playing, or as if there’s a prescribed optimal solution. I recognize how the sheet wants you to accidentally preclude the possibility of not filling in every square, but it winds up feeling overly restrictive and finicky. It’s also the tonal opposite of the coke-snorting rival-shooting madhouse that marks the rest of the puzzle.

Whatever the reason, Capital Offense is the entry I liked least. It probably doesn’t help that its drab white aesthetic doesn’t capture the sheer vibrancy that’s on display elsewhere. Every time I’ve completed it, I’ve immediately wanted to circle back to one of the other sheets for a refresher.

All told, Zach Attack! is a worthwhile experiment. Half of the puzzles are excellent, only one of them left me cold, and there’s no denying that they’re inventive and clever. Barth has a long history of crafting solid solitaire games, and this collection demonstrates why he’s a master of the field. Operating under the strangest of self-imposed limitations, he’s created six distinct puzzles that each leverage the concept of scratch-offs-as-board-games to their utter extreme. I would love to see another set in the future. For now, I’ll be merrily scratching away at Task Force ’86.

 

A complimentary copy of Zach Attack! was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Hi! My name is Cate. This is my selection of my favorite ten games from last year.

#10. Katmai: The Bears of Brooks River

Katmai is about these bears that you get to put in different places, and they have to survive and catch fish. The bears can compete for territory and food. With the bears your goal is to put them in places to make a pattern to score points. And all the bears have these fun little names that I like, and they’re all real bears from Alaska. I think it is a good game for all nature lovers.

#9. Hot Streak

Hot Streak is a good funny game that kids can play. It’s really funny because the characters fall down while they’re racing. The game is about these silly characters that are mascots for different restaurants or stores, and they’re racing to compete to see which mascot is best. You don’t exactly control the characters. Instead, you have cards you draw to see which one falls, which one is ahead, and which one travels the farthest. You win by voting which mascot you think will win and if that mascot wins you will earn money. There are three main races in Hot Streak and whoever has the most money from voting on their favorite mascot wins the game.

#8. Magical Athlete

Like Hot Streak, Magical Athlete is a racing game. But instead of moves played by cards, the characters walk by rolling a die. We do a big snake draft to see which characters we’re going to get. There’s a very big variety of characters. A normal round is four races. There are also these things on the racing track that can move you up a space, give you a point, or move you backward. There are some characters that have good abilities like an extra roll or moving an extra space, but there are some who are not as good, with defaults such as not being able to land on the finish space unless you get the right roll. It is a good game to play with a big group and see how this silly race turns out.

#7. Thunder Road Vendetta

Thunder Road is about these racing cars. Sometimes they run into difficulties on the road that slow them down or crash them. You play as the cars themselves, and the racetrack is different almost every time. Some racetracks are hard and some are easy; there’s one racer that is a helicopter that flies over the cars and drops bombs on them to slow them down, and there’s a car that’s so long, and that’s both an advantage and a disadvantage. There’s a lot of action and excitement, and cars that have a bad course on the tracks won’t make it through.

#6. Tic Tac Trek

Tic Tac Trek is like Tic Tac Toe, but once you score the game isn’t over. Instead you place a campfire. Oh, and instead of a board that’s just normal Tic Tac Toe, there are tiles you put out. Tiles can be stuff like forests or mountains. It has to touch another of its kind, and it can’t go diagonal. Rivers are rare and can touch anything. They don’t even have to touch other rivers, they can touch anything and anything can touch them. But if a token cannot touch one of its own kind, you can place it anywhere, but if it’s possible to touch a river, then you have to make it touch a river. Scoring isn’t about how many lines you make with the tokens, it’s how many free spaces are around your campfires. That makes it kind of tricky because you might be good at scoring points in Tic Tac Toe, but you might not see your opponent coming to block your free spaces. I like the little campfires and the cool little nature spaces.

#5. Ichor

Ichor is about these battling Greek Gods and Greek Monsters, like a minotaur or Aphrodite. They each have special powers that make them unique, and the goal is to go really far on the board. Whenever you move on a space, you place a token to show that the space is yours. But whenever someone else goes over your tokens, they replace them with one of their own tokens. Whoever places all of their tokens first wins. A lot of special powers can mean jumping over opponents, or blocking them, or mimicking them, so you can place the most tokens. I really like Greek myths so it’s fun to play to see the monsters and gods fighting like that. The game doesn’t end with death or execution, but is just a quick little game about their rivalry.

#4. Tidal Blades 2: Rise of the Unfolders

Tidal Blades is this fun game about these characters that are half-people half-animal. They live on floating islands on the ocean. The game is based on what might happen in the future. It has different dimensions, a big world, and monsters to beat, many missions, and portals to different worlds. And it is a really fun game for people who like imaginative things. There is this one big monster at the very end [minor spoiler] that you fight with everybody, whether you are them or not. It just has a lot of character and fun in it. It isn’t only about the heroes’ adventures, it’s also about them relaxing in their hometown and stuff. I really like that it’s this big adventure that people can go on.

#3. Agent Avenue

Agent Avenue is basically this small little board with these small little spaces that the characters go on. Whoever catches the other person’s character wins. There are little cards that show how much you move by. There are even these little mice [in the expansion] that can go either way to catch your rival for you. It has very many tricks and a lot of things that you might not see coming. For your turn, you will put out two cards, one face up and one face down; your rival takes one card and then you take the other. It’s hard because you don’t know which one your rival will take, and some cards can be things that make you win or lose the third time you get it. So whatever cards you pick out for yourself or your rival, they can either defeat you themselves or make it really easy for you to win. I like the little animals that we play as in Agent Avenue and all the twists and turns.

#2. March of the Ants

March of the Ants is about these little ants and you can create your own type of ant with these different cards to see what will be best for you. It is all about taking over territory and finding different dens, finding worm holes, and beating centipedes. The ants in the game must spread popularity, find food, and keep pressing forward and laying eggs to survive. There is a winter in this game and it’s all about how the ants have to survive through it, and how they prepare for it. Whoever has the most points through all the winters in the game wins. I like the different species of ants you can make up, and I just like the game, because that’s normal nature, to learn to survive.

#1. Tag Team

Tag Team is about these different sides that are fighting. You pick two characters and they have these different powers and abilities they can use against your rival. They have hit points, and you have these planned attacks in your deck. New cards have to slide into your deck; you can’t swap your deck’s order. It is hard because you kind of know what attacks are coming, but not exactly, and we each do our attacks at the exact same time, so you can block them or defend yourself, which makes it really tricky but really fun. It makes me feel smart because I always beat my daddy.

Those are my favorite games from last year! Daddy said I couldn’t pick Compile because he didn’t write about it last year, but I have the new Compile, too. It’s my favorite game.

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

It’s hard, maybe impossible, to not put yourself into Keep the Faith, the latest board game by Greg Loring-Albright. Going in, I always tell myself the same thing. This time, I say, the religion I create is going to be something different from the one I grew up in, the one I’ve spent a lifetime studying, the one that got me to learn a bunch of old languages in order to prove its connection to a millennia-gone church only to accidentally disavow itself in the process. And then, like this opening paragraph, somehow I find myself circling back, like a star trapped in a slow orbit around a black hole, hydrogen distending into that event horizon.

Okay, so perhaps I have feelings. Surely that’s a sign that Keep the Faith is a success. But if that’s so, then why is it so difficult to write about? Why has it taken me seven hours to get this far?

Keep the Faith opens with a new religion. (Already I want to quibble. Religions never begin at a concrete moment. Especially when they claim they do.) It begins with a series of values, six in all, arrayed like the spokes of a wagon wheel so that opposing traits are clearly delineated. Perhaps one of those values will be “Guard the Gates,” in which case its opposite value will be “Welcome the Outsider.” Or perhaps the dichotomy will be “Spread the Word” versus “Protect the Secrets.” Or “Be Set Apart” and “Be in the World.” “Recall the Old” and “Reveal the New.”

These aren’t contradictions, to my understanding, although someday this timeline’s New Atheists will insist that they are, probably with Power Point slides festooned with scary red arrows drawing attention to every self-rebutting verse. But that isn’t how I think about them, at least not necessarily, not always. They’re the creases and folds that occur whenever a human institution examines itself, points that aren’t in conflict, not even two sides of the same coin or two expressions of the same face, but varying applications of friction and heat and pressure.

Take Christianity. (Uh oh. Here we go. The black hole latches in its hooks.) Early in the religion’s life, after some emperor or another had declared a period of persecution that led many believers to lapse out of despair or convenience or terror, only for that same emperor to die a few years later and leave his dictates in the dustbin, believers were faced with an existential question. Should they welcome the lapsed back into the congregation or extract some display of contrition? And if so, what was that contrition’s proper severity? The lapsed had, after all, betrayed their faith and might pose a danger to the community. But forgiveness and long-suffering and turning the other cheek were essential traits of the faith. For one to deny a penitent their relief was to become oneself unfaithful. It was a pickle. But a contradiction? Eh. Ask the faithful. Ask the penitent. You might receive two very different answers.

To these contrasting values, everyone at the table populates their nascent faith with a handful of aspects, always narrating the meaning behind each pairing. If I play the card that invites me to think about “Food,” I choose one of our values and explain how it’s reflected by this aspect. Recall the Old? That’s easy: our food is flatbread and bitter herbs, a reminder of our time in bondage. Accept Our Fate? That requires a little more thought. Perhaps we aren’t meant to think too hard about preparing our meals, instead taking what we can get as our religion expands to new continents and cultures. Shape Our Destiny? Food becomes an act of defiance, as prepared and dressed-up as possible. Eventually, we restrict ourselves to only the most enriched flours and mummifying preservatives, all the better to stave off the entropy that claims us all. Ironically, these highly processed meals shorten our lives. Is this a contradiction? I’m sure somebody has a Power Point for that.

This is the setup. But it’s also the play. Much of the time, Keep the Faith is about pairing aspects and values and then explaining their relevance. It’s also about shifting those aspects between values. At some point, maybe Food will be severed from Shape Our Destiny and move over to Wielding Power. We narrate the change: somebody has persuaded their coreligionists that the former use of food was a contradiction; now it’s a sign of dominance. The wealthy eat everything while everybody else fights over the scraps.

(Again, the black hole pulls at me. We’ve reinvented trickle-down economics and the fabled Needle Gate of Jerusalem and every other false justification of the wealthy that they deserve not only to eat well, but also the untouched extras as well. Is my brain the trap here, or is humanity bound to a turning wheel from which it will never quite wriggle free?)

These aspects are presented without oversight from Loring-Albright. Like the ecclesiastical positions of Amabel Holland’s Nicaea, there are no icons stating that one aspect is more valuable than another, or even valuable in a distinct way, or that there are resources tied to these concepts of Media and Social Conformity and Hierarchy and Esotericism and everything else. They are offered as blank slates. (No. Not quite blank. Because, again, there’s no escaping the black hole, no breaking free of the wheel. It’s just that their value isn’t encoded within the game’s rules. Instead, it’s encoded within us, the players.)

At multiple junctures, every time I play Keep the Faith, I balk at this blankness just as I balk at my incapacity to frame the game’s nouns in a novel way. I have my own hangups with role-playing games, and I grow frustrated when board games are presented as imaginatively inferior to their more improvisational cousins. In one sense, the absence of a stance — that “Animals” and “Gender” and “Ancestors” are presented as equivalents within the game’s ludic rhetoric — strikes me as a dereliction of duty on Loring-Albright’s part. It’s a thought I always shake off, but before long it sneaks back in again. If we, the players, aren’t willing to share some part of ourselves whenever we pair an aspect to a value, the cards might as well be blank. Physically blank, not only blank of icons.

However, there is a governing logic behind these assignations. While the moment-to-moment gameplay depends entirely on the players’ willingness to narrate their choices, there is an underlying drive. When the game begins, we receive a core value that our particular sect holds dear. Maybe I care most about Recalling the Old, while you’re all about Welcoming the Outsider.

But we also each receive a hidden goal. Perhaps I’m Righteous, in which case I want to protect my core value at all costs. We will Recall the Old, forging a religion of calendars and feasts and constant observances. In game terms, this translates to me keeping as many aspect cards tucked under my core value as possible. But in that same session, you might be Steadfast. Even if it means abandoning your core value, you intend to achieve stability in our faith, ensuring that one half of the wheel is filled with as many aspects as possible.

What’s interesting is that these objectives can be entirely complementary. There’s a world where my single-minded zeal and your spineless centrism go hand in hand. But what if one of our co-players is Rebellious? Their goal is to slap as many aspects onto non-dominant values as possible, driving our faith into a period of schism. These objectives push Keep the Faith into more familiar territory, games-wise, but make no mistake, they function foremost as narrative devices. Every round, the clock shifts forward. A century passes, some new question or crisis arises, and the landscape of our faith shifts out from under our feet. Our overall goal remains firm — unless we opt to alter it, a possibility provided by the game — but our sect’s relationship to its core beliefs is always in flux. (Of course, there’s no such thing as a community that maintains exactly the same values over centuries. Today’s rebellion becomes tomorrow’s centrists, as they say. But like every other parenthetical in this review, this isn’t a critique as such, just a note.)

If you couldn’t tell, I’ve had a complicated response to Keep the Faith.

As a board game, it’s rather plain. The entire thing lasts maybe an hour and a half, give or take a few minutes depending how stridently people decide to chase their individual objectives. I mentally sort it into the same box as Jenna Felli’s deduction games, especially Bemused, where the incentives are opaque enough that newcomers are often left unsure of what they’re actually meant to do here. One can attempt deduction, trying to suss out what their fellow players hope to accomplish, but those energies are better spent elsewhere. At root, it’s about shifting stacks of cards from one place to another; beyond that, there simply isn’t enough scaffolding to produce much in the way of classic gameplay.

As a role-playing experience, it suffers from the same problems that harry other RPGs with heavy topics on their mind — namely, that everybody brings their own expectations to the table and must navigate the collaborative process to the best of their abilities, and even one awkward or uncomfortable moment can turn the whole thing to rubble. This is also, naturally, the game’s strength, provided everyone agrees on some ground rules. It can be funny, sad, traumatic, cringey, or dramatic. Sometimes it is all of those things within the same few minutes. Because the tale it tells is more institutional than personal, it also encourages a certain distance from its subject matter. Given its closeness to so many lived experiences, this is a huge relief.

As a historiographical toolkit, it’s without parallel. Just flipping through the cards is a useful exercise, demonstrating how faith and religion can intersect with things both large and benign. One card is titled “Prophets & Gadflies,” emphasizing the highest and lowest reaches of its cultural landscape. But that’s an obvious example. One is invited to consider symbolism, clothing, gestures, plants, sacrifices, figures of speech, weather and seasons, music, language, beverages, gifts, and so much more. Where modern study tends to put religion in a box, Keep the Faith breaks it out again. I would recommend it to students of religion in a heartbeat.

As a personal experience, it splits some raw nerves. I expect I won’t be alone in that. My own faith tradition, Mormonism, argues that it is a direct descendant of Christianity as it appeared in the first and second centuries, before the Catholics and Romans came in to mess it up. It’s an argument that’s made by pretty much every Christian sect. We are the original. Our values are Jesus’s values. These practices are pure and untainted by the world. Never mind that our own practices and values have changed within lived memory, let alone the centuries.

Keep the Faith puts such a sadness in me. Because it’s hard, maybe impossible, to not bring myself into this thing. It’s impossible to not see the kid who fled into religion because of abuse, even when that religion was also the cause of the abuse. It’s impossible to not see the idealist missionary who was let down by the institution. It’s impossible to not see the young scholar, learning that everything he had been taught was an excuse rather than good information.

That’s healthy, in its own way. (Yes, it is.) But it hurts, too. (Yes, it does.) If I had to stamp my own thesis on the experience, I would say that Keep the Faith is about how religion is every bit as contingent and changeable as every other human creation, but that, paradoxically, it displays one true constant in its overriding need to always pretend it has always been this way, to chart its roots to the beginning even as it’s constantly born anew, to insist that it honors its heritage even as it spills buckets of whiteout and ink across its own pages. The result is a complicated, textured experience, one I intend to use in the classroom but will probably avoid for personal consumption. Along the way, the wheel keeps turning, the black hole keeps pulling me inward, and the faith keeps being kept. Here is the note of hope and the note of despair, hand in hand: It will change. And then it will pretend it never did.

 

A complimentary copy of Keep the Faith was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Aaron Weissblum’s Celestia is one of those games I’ve wanted to play again, if only out of curiosity. Cloud 9, the title it reimplements, originally hit shelves way back in 1999, the toddler era for modern board games, and although I prefer more recent expressions of press-your-luck like Deep Sea Adventure or MLEM: Space Agency, there’s no denying that Celestia manages to feel distinct from its peers despite some significant similarities.

Let’s start with the big parallel: like those other titles I mentioned, Celestia takes place on a perilous track filled with increasingly tasty rewards but also greater odds that your vessel — in this case a wooden airship that looks great on the table but shouldn’t be considered airworthy — will plummet to the ground in a shower of fire and splinters. There’s an even greater proximity to MLEM in that players take turns as the ship’s captain. Everybody is invited to gaze into their eyes and ask that most crucial of questions: “You got this?”

Yeah. I got this.

Or so the captain pro tem will reply, because Celestia is something of a bluffing game. Where most press-your-luck games are all about playing the odds, Weissblum’s is… well, also about playing the odds, but there’s some Boy Scout’s motto mixed in for good measure. To put it another way, players best come ready to lie their butts off and pray to the aleatory gods that their rolls will tumble aright, but it helps to bring the right cards along for the voyage.

Round by round, Celestia looks like this. On each leg of the journey, you check the odds of making it to the next port. Early on, this means two dice; by the end of the line, you’ll be chucking four. These dice present a number of threats: bad weather, different bad weather, carnivorous birds, or sky-pirates. There are blanks as well, which could transform even early hops into deadly charybdes or the last leg into little more than a summery jaunt.

At this point, everybody makes a choice. Either they stick with the current captain, believing them capable of facing whatever dangers appear along the journey, or they jump ship then and there. In most cases — a strong 90% of the time, if not more often — you’ll want to ditch the voyage well short of its final destination. This will earn a treasure from the current island. Naturally, these become more valuable with each passing landmass, tempting everyone to stick it out for just a little longer.

Anyway, the dice are cast and everyone chooses their fate. The captain then spends cards to face the current challenge or the blimp goes down. Either way, this process continues with a new captain, everyone rotating around and around until the voyage is finished one way or another. Then you go again. Eventually somebody obtains enough prizes to bring the session to its conclusion.

As I noted a moment ago, what makes Celestia interesting is that it’s strictly more than a press-your-luck game. It’s also about discussion, and assessing the odds that the captain is holding cards that can rise to the moment, and sometimes tricking people into staying in the boat so they can share your fate. Or maybe wincing a little. Just enough to persuade people that you can’t really sail past all those murderbirds, but not so much that they know you’re fibbing. Your goal, after all, is to earn more points than your fellow passengers.

Of course, there are special abilities, like jetpacks for ditching the ship at the last moment, acts of sabotage that reroll any blank dice, or jeweled spyglasses that are worth points but can be broken to usher the ship to its next port without incident. In some cases, these items can prove as frustrating as they are worthwhile, especially when some people keep drawing all the good stuff. Knizia balanced MLEM around the idea that everybody at the table had every special ability, but they were presented as astronaut abilities that had to be committed to a mission in advance. Here luck plays a double role, affecting both the results of its dice and what everyone pulls from the deck.

Still, it’s notable how much of a role deception plays in Celestia. Because players see the results of the roll before making their decision, it’s necessary to test the captain a bit. And because the role swaps so quickly, it isn’t long before everybody starts to take the measure of one another’s hand. In our last session, my wife was quick to remind the table that I’d failed my last outing as the captain because I wasn’t holding any storm cards. Fortunately, I’d drawn one in the interim, letting me race forward after leaving everybody marooned at the last port.

Which is to say, Celestia may feel undirected early on, but as the game develops those decisions become more and more informed. It’s never quite as focused as I would like; the bluffing and the chancier elements hover in tension with one another rather than fully blending together. But it still stands apart from other games of its ilk by trying to have it both ways. If anything, it could have afforded to lean into its two-faced nature even further. As it stands, I don’t foresee myself returning to it, but it is an interesting example of how a system can feel different with even a few small adjustments.

 

A complimentary copy of Celestia was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Fred Serval, one of wargaming’s great rabble-rousers, has a new game out. It might not sound like a new game, since I covered it a year and a halfish ago, but that was a convention freebie that required scissors and some buttons from your bottom drawer to play. A Very Civil Whist is now an actual game you can buy and play and push around, or maybe even press into service as a doorstop if that’s your thing.

I like it even more now than I did the first time.

Even as an exercise in minimalism and design limitation, A Very Civil Whist is quite the thing to behold. Like the original one-sheet version, the game is largely playable with a single deck of cards that fulfills four different purposes at the same time. There’s an actual map board now, plus chunky cardboard counters for everything, and some chess pieces for tracking the fronts and foreign support in its ongoing English Civil War, but the highlight is still that deck of cards.

As you can probably tell from the game’s title, this is a trick-taker, although there are some wrinkles that prevent it from feeling too much like anything else out there. Like German Whist, there’s a drafting phase, in which both players deploy a small hand of cards in order to secure other cards, and some combination of your original hand and those later additions then serve as your tools for the battles, domestic and foreign support, and reactions to come.

The deck is really something, both visually, thanks to the old woodblock prints that are their illustrations, and as a mechanical showcase. Most of the time, only the 4-9s get used in the trick-taking, tightening the scope in a way that’s even easier on card-counting, or at least card-vibing, than the form usually permits. The 10s serve as power-ups that unlock when your faction reaches a certain threshold: securing enough foreign support as the Royalists, say, or seizing some good ground in the northern war as Parliament. This basically confers an insta-win in that particular suit, although of course one should be suspicious of anything that seems like a sure strategy.

The remainder of the cards still matter. The lower suits, those 1s through 3s, function as a casualty check. When an attack fails, you draw a pair from this deck and see whether they sum to a higher number than your commander’s resilience; if so, he atones for his dishonor by falling on the field of battle. This is, to put it lightly, a bummer, especially when one of your better leaders bites it early. In one of my more bruising sessions, I managed to bring out Oliver Cromwell only to watch as he tripped onto his own sword in his very first fight. Let’s call that a good outcome for the Irish Catholics.

Meanwhile, the face cards become events. A Very Civil Whist is a brisk game, only four hands long at maximum, which requires two events per round. But they’re high-impact things, not to mention load-bearing tendons in the game’s connective tissue. Queen Henrietta might appear to call upon a burst of foreign support from her home country, or new counters might enter play to provide a one-time boost to your odds in battle. My least-favorite event — and I mean that in the complimentary sense — is the one that allows Parliament to examine every pair of that round’s drafted cards in advance before hiding one of them face-down, turning the draft into a nasty bluffing minigame.

With the cards pulling so many duties, it may not seem like there’s enough to keep players engaged. Nothing could be further from the truth. A Very Civil Whist is nasty, brutish, and short, all qualities Serval leverages to the game’s benefit. The military fronts are seesaws, their tracks kin to States of Siege’s lanes, always under threat. Shoring up your domestic support is necessary to declare victory, but requires players to discard their most precious cards. Unlike some trick-takers, there is never a moment that feels foreordained; there’s always something to do, some weaselly advantage to be clawed over on your rival.

Which brings us to a larger question: is A Very Civil Whist worthwhile as more than a plaything? As a trick-taker, it’s very good. As a visual production, it look fantastic. But what about as an expression of its historical conflict? We are, presumably, interested in these games as portrayals of their conflicts, not merely as vague nods in their direction.

There will be some variance here. Between its approach to events and the way its verbs relate to its card-play, there’s no denying that this occupies the far end of the CDG wargaming spectrum. In other words, it’s profoundly abstract. With some imagination, one may imagine the cards as stand-ins for broader considerations: some diplomatic tact here, the New Model Army there. But I doubt anybody would argue it doesn’t require the aforementioned imagining.

Where A Very Civil Whist excels, I think, has less to do with the invocation of specific occurrences, and more to do with the closeness and acrimony of its conflict. One doesn’t gain a sense for the progression of the English Civil War so much as for its unprecedented and brutal nature. Like the term “civil war,” the game’s title is a bitter irony. There is nothing civil about it. The war’s actors may speak the same tongue, may wear the clothes of noblemen, may speak in lofty dialogue. But here they are, grubbing in the mud for advantage over their closest peers. Nobody will emerge from the game any closer to having memorized the war’s important dates or understood its underlying causes. But they may grasp some of its proximity, some flicker of the reverberations it will send down the centuries. This is the true starting point for the Age of Revolution. Some may mark its date later, up to a full century after these events. But, no, it is here, in these very English debates over the ultimate source of sovereignty, over which taxes are justly imposed and which are unfairly extorted, over questions of which kingdoms should be accepted to rule over others, over the framework of constitutions and who deserves to benefit from them, that the great upheavals mark their beginning.

In any case, it’s hard not to be drawn to A Very Civil Whist’s sheer audacity. It’s a single-deck game that prizes playing cards for their versatility as much as for their ubiquity, and deploys both traits to great effect. It’s a hybrid of trick-taking and wargame that manages to emphasize the strength of both forms even as it forges its own identity. It’s even another investigation of revolutionary history, making it the rightful partner of A Gest of Robin Hood and Red Flag Over Paris — and, in many ways, their superior.

 

A complimentary copy of A Very Civil Whist was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi. Right now, supporters can read about which films I watched in 2025, including some brief thoughts on each. That’s 44 movies! That’s a lot, unless you see, like, 45 or more movies in a year!)

Sometimes one card makes all the difference. When I played Agent Avenue last year, I found it sharp but perhaps a millimeter thinner than I would like, resulting in an affinity for the four-player mode over the usual two-player duel. Now that I’ve added Division M to the mix, I can safely say the expansion functions like a shim under a chair’s mismatched leg.

I say “one card,” but rest assured that Division M includes more than a single card. This is no depot expansion to The Lucky Seven. Which isn’t to say it’s exactly sprawling. There are six copies of the new card, plus fifteen black market cards for the advanced mode. Still a slender expansion, then, but it’s not like it ships in one of those singlet baseball card sleeves.

As before, players take on the role of rival secret agents who have moved into the same suburban community and are now enlisting their neighbors in a race to corner their opponent, a conceit that speaks to high drama without requiring more than a sentence of introduction and a few furry illustrations. The stakes are immediately clear: the board is a clockwise circuit, and whichever agent catches up to their rival delivers a presumable double-tap that concludes the session.

Similarly, the poison-pill gameplay returns wholly intact. Turns are simple: one side presents two cards, one visible and the other face-down, then their opponent picks which card both sides will receive. It isn’t quite as involved as the antics of my preferred divide-and-choose title Pacts, but that’s also the point. With only a handful of options in circulation, the possibility space is constrained, which only makes the decision space all the more deadly.

But where the base game’s cards fell into two broad categories — those that moved pawns and those that could, once enough copies were gathered, win or lose the game outright — Division M’s addition makes everything else more fraught. It’s an assassin. A mouse assassin. When first played, this adds an extra pawn to the board. As further copies are acquired, that assassin shifts its position like a shadow version of your main agent. If ever your rival shares a space with the great mouse assassin, it’s lights out for them. And vice versa, of course. Because there are six copies of Division M in the deck, it’s entirely possible for both sides to chase their rival while also dodging pint-sized bullets.

What this adds to Agent Avenue is an essential landmine. It has always been possible to “checkmate” one’s opponent, offering a pair of cards that will both cause them to lose, or, barring that, to weaken their position. With Division M in the mix, that’s a little more likely, but in both directions. It isn’t uncommon, for instance, to see a Division M card put up for offer right as you approach your rival’s side of the board. By claiming the concealed card, you might move right into the freshly-spawned rodent killer. Or is that what your opponent wants you to think? And so forth.

This makes matches punchier, which is exactly what I wanted. Despite my affection for the base game, I’ve suffered through the occasional match that ran a little too long for its own good, both agents circling again and again until one of them lost out of exhaustion more than maneuvering. Those days are over.

It helps, too, that the new black market cards are stellar. Nothing has changed in the advanced mode, rules-wise. Landing on a corner space still lets you select one of three offerings, and those cards are still nasty little things. It’s just that they’re a little more barbed than before. There’s the Turncoat, which lets you recruit a card from your opponent’s hand at random. Will you get something they’ve been hoarding for the right moment? Or maybe an ill-timed saboteur? Some of the new options even manipulate your new pawn, like Call Backup, which lets you move your mouse up to three spaces. That one’s counterpart is Secret Passage, which gives you a one-time dodge when your diminutive killer would put you on ice. Those fifteen extra cards double the size of the black market deck, ensuring that each session now has its own set of considerations.

Still, the real draw is the Division M card. The short version — short, geddit? — is that I already liked Agent Avenue, but Division M shapes it into an all-timer. It’s a perfect game for filling ten minutes, which includes when the kiddos want to play something quick before bed or we’d like to cap off an evening with something that’s still pleasantly thinky. I can’t foresee a time when I won’t want it on my forever shelf.

 

A complimentary copy of Agent Avenue: Division M was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)

Yubibo exists to reveal which member of your group has selfish proprioception, a sentence I never could have conceptualized until I experienced a friend, with a dozen sticks poised between his fingers and those of four peers, suddenly rotating his wrist all the way around to arrive at a more comfortable position. Six other players were sent lurching in response, doing everything in their power to maintain the pressure on those sticks. It didn’t work. Foam balls and wooden sticks clattered to the table. Everyone laughed.

Yubibo feels like a game invented, playtested, and marketed in a dumpling restaurant. The gist couldn’t be simpler. You draw a card — very quickly itself a feat of balance — to reveal which player you must balance a stick with. Which player and which finger. Your brother-in-law’s ring finger. Your daughter’s thumb. Your own birdie finger, which means anybody’s birdie finger of your choosing.

Early on, this is a simple ask. Two people can hold a stick between them. No problemo. Kein problem. Mondainai. Another stick? Sure. How about a third. What is this, a game for children?

I’ve tried Yubibo with children, and let me tell you, it takes some willpower to keep more than a couple sticks above the table. My older daughter can manage alright, although her wrist gets tired after a while. My six-year-old? Forget it. She has the greediest proprioception I’ve ever seen. This isn’t something I could have known about her until she tossed an entire handful of sticks onto the table, noping out of the game after three minutes. Was her hand hurting? “I just don’t like this game,” she insisted.

Even with adults, it only takes one go around the table, maybe two with a smaller group, before you start to feel it. Not only the burn, although Yubibo excels at finding the muscle groups that have atrophied from disuse. No, it’s the sheer jittery tension that comes from coordinating with other human beings, but not quite touching them. The sticks become power cables. Tension bridges. Bonsai wires. When someone in the group shifts — even when it isn’t someone you’re holding a stick with — you feel every movement, transmitted like a message through multiple intermediaries. Someone rolls their finger to accommodate a second stick and the entire collective vibrates.

At its easiest, Yubibo is just about balancing sticks. In case you’d like to try out for your country’s gymnastics team, you can also try to stuff foam balls in between the sticks. Why would you do this? Because it transforms you into Mr. Miyagi trying to honk a clown nose. A hivemind Mr. Miyagi who, if you’re anything like us, lacks basic coordination and couldn’t beat up a gang of skeletons if his life depended on it.

I think strange thoughts while playing Yubibo, which is undoubtedly bad practice when it comes to focusing on all those sticks. I look at that shifting forest and wonder if this is what the connections in our brain are like, tensing and flexing as they produce consciousness. I see human society, this magnificent construct barely held aloft through faith and determination. I see a family. Then I lock eyes with someone across the table and the spell breaks, and more often than not I feel the tremor in my knuckles and the whole thing begins to come apart.

Yubibo is a quick game. It’s an easy game to teach. Unlike some balancing games, I have my doubts that it’s quite winnable. Oh, the rules provide a metric. A certain number of sticks. In my experience, those are best ignored. The game shines when you play it with all the stuff. When there’s no purpose but the cascade at the end. Not every game needs to end in victory. Sometimes, just holding it together for one more go-round the table is enough.

There isn’t much more to say about Yubibo. This once, that strikes me as a good thing. Ten minutes, lots of laughter, lots of failure. The sticks clatter, the foam balls bounce away. So, too, goes whatever was cluttering my headspace only a few moments ago.

 

A complimentary copy of Yubibo was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)

For all that board games thrive on taking us to new places, exploration is surprisingly hard to do well. Explorers of Navoria, designed by Meng Chunlin, is a prime example. Set in a colorful world redolent of Root’s woodland or Oath’s turbulent empire, and populated by critters who wouldn’t draw much side-eye in either setting, Explorers of Navoria is nominally about pushing the frontier ever outward, but more accurately about shifting one’s position on a number of slightly differentiated tracks. In the proper mode — a persnickety combination of player count, expansion, and headspace — it’s a tasty and visually appealing course that feels good going down even as it leaves the stomach rumbling minutes later.

To describe Explorers of Navoria is to divvy it into two halves. Think of them as expansion and contraction. In the first phase, players are asked to push outward, assigning discs to various decks to acquire cards in the market; later, they will reassign those discs back into the heartland that birthed them, earning resources and other sundries.

Each of these phases has its own appeal. The exploration phase is immediately rewarding. Either you draw a pair of those discs from a bag and select one, or else claim one of the previous discards. Either way, your… troupe? guild? I’m not sure, but whatever their role, they’ll nab a card from the market and put it into practice.

These cards, in addition to being easy on the eyes, are simple little things. Some move your explorers along tracks, one for each of the desert, jungle, and mountain, in order to plant flags and earn farthest-place bonuses. Others build outposts along those same tracks, pushing your starting space outward for future rounds. Those are the most dynamic; others are more straight-laced, earning resources that can be distributed across your player board’s three spaces to be cashed in for bonuses and points later, or perhaps building combos for later. There are suits to consider for end-game scoring, various species to monopolize for the same function, and the not-occasional coin or three. Coins are victory points, by the way, so don’t go expecting something more engaging.

And then, once the exploration is complete, Explorers of Navoria transforms into an ultra-light worker-placement shindig. Those same tokens return home, only this time the earnings are less tableau-ish. You earn a few more resources, a few more coins, and maybe turn in some of those resources for an extra few bonuses.

The secret to the game’s success isn’t really much of a secret. Everything is rewarding. Everything feels good. It’s like a casino where every slot machine is guaranteed to dump cherries and coins and colorful bits of ribbon in your lap. Never mind that the cherries are plastic and the coins hold no value. Explorers of Navoria is a masterwork at saying something loudly and often, but with very little meaning.

To be fair, that isn’t such a bad thing. At its best, Explorers of Navoria could hardly be described as a poor hang. It feels good to move up those tracks. It feels great to build an outpost and start a little farther out than last time. It feels nice to bring home a wagon full of crystals and swords, and even better to trade them in for some extra coins-slash-VPs.

Little by little, though, the sameness of the linoleum starts to show through. There’s the way every card sticks more or less to the same formula, maybe plus or minus a point, but never coughing up anything all that exciting. Or the way every combo looks like every other combo; there are those that reward coins for particular races, or those that trigger only at the end of the game for outposts, with very little room in between. This isn’t exactly a game that allows the player to discover something new, let alone forge their own way in the world. At least there’s some frisson of randomness there, courtesy of the draw-bag and the way the market populates with cards. It isn’t much. It isn’t enough. I’d call it a gesture in the right direction. But two plays is enough to realize you’ve already seen what Explorers of Navoria has to offer.

It doesn’t help that some of the game’s best ideas are hidden away behind the expansion. Like actual rewards for moving along those tracks. Actual rewards apart from coins, I mean, such as bonuses for collecting the previously underwhelming warfare cards. Or like the faction draft that sees each player building their own opening combo, with starting cards and little abilities, complete with an extra resource that can be gathered on the map and churned into a new approach to the gameplay. Or like the addition of a sixth deck of cards in the market. This makes it possible to play with five players, but more importantly it allows the game to actually function at four.

Okay, I’ll back up. With the base game, each round sees players gathering four cards. Unless you have four people at the table. Then you only gather three. That’s the difference between nine and twelve cards at the end of the game. Playing with four means everybody is too pinched. It’s hard to move along any of those exploration tracks, let alone build a functional combo. With the expansion, however, now there’s enough to go around. Unless you bump the count to five players. Then you’re stuck gathering those three cards per round again.

It’s a weird way to gate a package’s content. Urp. Content. I hate thinking about board games like that. But in this case, it’s hard not to default to that way of thinking. The base game works well enough, but it works less well without the expansion. Despite all the color and the fanciful characters and the moment-to-moment lizard-brained pleasure of accumulation, it feels thin, like the precise number of cards were doled out to make the game playable but also a bit lean, just enough to leave everyone hungry for more.

Which leaves Explorers of Navoria in an odd space. Like I said earlier, it feels good to play. It’s tight. Players will likely wind up with comparable scores, borne of fifty trickles that sometimes contained a drop more or less than the others. But it’s still the equivalent of licking a damp cave wall for nourishment. It’s just that there are pretty pictures to look at and some technically serviceable levers to pull while your tongue laps at that smoothness.

What’s left is a board game that looks nice and feels nice, but never really does anything more. Which, look, is sometimes precisely what I want. This is an easy game to converse over, even if the variable turn order makes it a little more hostile to beer-and-pretzels than it might have otherwise been. But there are other options out there. Some of them feel less like hamster wheels. You’ve got better things to do with your time than march up and down the same featureless tracks.

 

A complimentary copy of Explorers of Navoria was provided by the publisher.

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)

Another turn of the Wheel. 2025 was a banner year for board games, which by extension means it was a banner year for Best Week. Down below, you’ll find an index of the year’s picks. Click on any of the images to be whisked to the corresponding article. To the old year! To the new year!

Day One! Picture Perfect!

Day Two! Heart of Darkness!

Day Three! Beatrixmania!

Day Four! The D.T.R.!

Day Five! All My Children!

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)

In those now-unreachable years before my daughters came along, I remember balking at certain statements. “Some things you simply can’t understand until you have children,” someone would say. Now that I’ve had kids, I’m adult enough to admit they were right… but still juvenile enough to believe they were drafting their offspring into props to prove a point.

And what, exactly, have my daughters taught me? The unnamed emotion of putting an infant to sleep on my stomach. The mind-blanking terror of sitting beside a hospital bed. The way even the simplest of board games can become profound shared experiences. What follows is a list I never thought I would write: the games that transformed my year not because they were innovative or philosophical, but rather because they let me pass a few meaningful minutes with my girls.

#6. Tic Tac Trek

Designed by Trevor Benjamin and Brett J. Gilbert. Published by Alley Cat Games.

The third in Alley Cat’s line of mint-tin games, Tic Tac Trek initially seemed like the afterthought of the group. For one thing, unlike its predecessors Tinderblox and Barbecubes, it isn’t a stacking game. For another, it’s a riff on Tic Tac Toe, the worst way to pass time in church. (Besides actually listening to the sermon, obviously.)

I should have known better than to doubt Trevor Benjamin and Brett J. Gilbert. Tic Tac Trek is as smart as they come. Your goal is indeed to make three in a row, but here your marks are tiles drawn from a bag, injecting tension and doubt into every move. What’s more, you hope to ignite your campfires on the edges of the play space, earning points for every uncharted territory around them, but risking subtractions as the game progresses. It’s a masterclass in shared incentives and painstaking blocking — but on a more relevant level, you should have seen me beam when my elder daughter absolutely swept my dad with a series of clever placements.

Review: Fire Hazards

#5. Ichor

Designed by Reiner Knizia. Published by Bitewing Games.

Look, I agree that Iliad, Ichor’s companion title, is the stronger of these Knizias. But Ichor is the one my elder daughter fell in love with, and by extension the one we played time and time again, her monsters sweeping across the foothills of Mount Olympus. As a game, Ichor feels tailor-made to appeal to chess-loving children. It’s basically the answer to the question, “What if every piece could move like a rook?” The answer is silly at times, especially when somebody leaves a lane unattended.

Of course, Reiner Knizia knows better than to let one of his games fall apart just for the sake of some silliness. Ichor stands apart because its objective isn’t to capture opposing pieces. Indeed, most pieces can’t capture at all. Instead, you’re here to scatter all your tokens across the board, a task made all the harder because your opponent also has a stable of their own rooks for replacing your tokens with their own. It’s only through careful play, including cautious use of your team’s special abilities, that you can get ahead. My daughter can beat me over half the time now. I couldn’t be prouder.

Review: She’s a Grisly Monster, I Assure You

#4. Magical Athlete

Designed by Takashi Ishida and Richard Garfield. Published by CMYK.

The surest sign of a board game’s success comes when my parents, relative agnostics for the form, ask excitedly if I brought it to Christmas brunch. Magical Athlete is one of the best board games ever designed, and I say that without reservation. Low player agency? Fart noise. Who cares. This is one of those rare games that can be played by four-year-olds and octogenarians with equal delight.

And the recent CMYK edition is more or less the game’s platonic ideal. Everything has been touched up: the character abilities, the extra racing circuit, the way racers are drafted, even the wooden miniatures. Ever seen a giant baby take up an entire space? The game is packed with little jokes, some ludic and others visual. I have yet to encounter a bad play of this thing. Or, crud, even an average play. My kids now insist we pack this thing to any sufficiently large family gathering. It’s that good.

Review: Chariots of Frickin’ Fire

#3. A Gentle Rain

Designed by Kevin Wilson. Published by Incredible Dream Studios.

Designed during the doldrums of a global plague, A Gentle Rain technically released in 2021. But in a testament to the format’s timelessness, it emerged as a household regular only this year. As a game, I was initially reluctant. The play consists of matching tile edges to create blossoms. Not much to it. There’s a win condition, but it’s squishy. To be frank, the entire project initially struck me as indulgent and patronizing.

I was wrong. Oh, so wrong. My younger daughter has always struggled with the largeness of her emotions. Being able to sit and undertake simple, soothing, repetitive actions has been a blessing. She cheats at the game; since it’s cooperative, nobody cares, and she also insists I cheat as well. It’s short enough that we can squeeze it in before school. And it’s calming enough that it has been become a reliable staple for helping her gain some space from an overwhelming task. As an exercise in mindfulness, A Gentle Rain exemplifies the strengths of tabletop games.

Review: A Mindful Rain

#2. Tidal Blades 2: Rise of the Unfolders

Designed by Tim and Ben Eisner. Published by Druid City Games.

Over the past year, we’ve tackled a number of campaign games. Most of them have quickly proved tiring. I won’t list examples; Best Week isn’t for downers. But the one title that consistently brought us back to the table, charmed us with its bright palette and upbeat characters, and kept us turning pages despite some rather, ah, expressive writing, was Tidal Blades 2: Rise of the Unfolders.

What are Unfolders? I could tell you, but it wouldn’t make any sense. Like most board game adventures, Tidal Blades 2 is a bit of a mush. But it’s a lovely mush. Even the monsters are worth seeing. We spent many nights poring over the game’s scenarios, my older kid tinkering with her character while my younger one perched on my lap for a side battle between her own hero and some spare creatures. This is the first board game that my kids could tell you about the lore. It helps, too, that I was also invested, not only because of the kiddos, but because the game’s world is so vibrant that even this weathered sack of bones found something worth defending.

Review: Wet Behind the Gills

#1. Hot Streak

Designed by Jon Perry. Published by CMYK.

It’s unthinkable that two goofball racing games came out this year, both with limited player agency, wacky characters, and broad appeal, and that the best of them wasn’t Magical Athlete. In our house, we were already Jon Perry fans. Between Spots for the kids and Scape Goat for the bigguns, there’s no denying his range and talent. Hot Streak bridges the gap with a Golden Gate of remarkable craftsmanship. Also, it’s a useful inroad to the topic of gambling. Look at what DraftKings did to these poor addicts, now reduced to wagering on the outcome of underground mascot races. Is this the future you want for yourselves, kids? Betting your life savings that a hot dog will eat asphalt?

Maaaybe. Above all else, Hot Streak is a scream. It captures the thrill of spectation, breaking down the barrier between play and passive observance. But, look, that’s grown-up talk. The real takeaway is that this is a perfect game because you can bet big on an angler fish running backwards across the finish line. We love it.

Review: Ready Set Brat

There you have it! Don’t hesitate to go all mushy on me. What were your favorite family/kid/dog games of the year? Share them below.

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)

Do people still D.T.R.? When I was a youngling, the acronym stood for Define The Relationship, that belly-clenching moment when two people would sit across from one another, lock eyes, and hold a serious discussion about whether to go steady. Nowadays it probably stands for Do The Rhombus. What is the Rhombus? I couldn’t tell you. Too old, me.

Something was in the air this year. Love, sex, breakups, and awkward situationships, to be specific. Weird, I know! For whatever reason, 2025 was the year we decided to actually get squishy for once. What follows are the year’s strongest exemplars.

#6. Conviction

Designed by Xoe Allred. Published by Lunarpunk Games.

It was deeply tempting to feature Xoe Allred’s Persuasion, as it remains one of the finest board games about relationships ever designed, and moreover now has a shiny new release from Hollandspiele. But I featured its print-and-play version back in 2022 — the topic of the day was “trauma,” take from that what you will — so instead this seemed like a good chance to talk about Conviction, the spiritual sequel to that game.

Conviction is the morning after of relationship games. The dream couple has been sealed in holy matrimony. Hooray! Only now it seems they didn’t discuss something important during the trial period. Oh no! Blending role-play, card counting, and all of ten minutes, Conviction is Allred’s portrayal of what happens when a couple quarrels, thus beginning either their reconciliation or the end of their mutual journey. With some investment from both players, it’s a striking meditation on… well, pretty much every adult relationship, to be honest. Mine, anyway.

Review: Lovers’ Quarrels

#5. We Need to Talk

Designed by Brendon Fong. Published by Skeptical Otter Games.

Trick-taking and shedding represent two sides of the same coin, a statement that surely won’t get in me trouble with the purists. We Need to Talk bends that coin into a möbius strip, tasking its duo with both winning tricks and pruning uncomfortable memories. That’s because they’re going through a bad breakup and are now trauma-dumping their shared reminiscences, good times along with the bad, awkward, and in-between.

We’ve all been there. Most of us. Not the dream couples, I guess. They’re stuck in the entry above this one. What makes We Need to Talk shine is the way it merges its conceptual framework with its gameplay. The illustrations capture the moments that make up many relationships, only to fade into the background or linger intrusively in the back of your character’s mind. Will you press onward to something new, or remain trapped in a memory prison? That’s up to you.

Review: Eternal Sunshine of the Trick-Taking Mind

#4. That’s the Spirit!

Designed by Connor Wake. Published by Always Awake Games.

“So, which of our friends killed us?” has got to rank up there as one of the most awkward questions one spirit can ask another while awaiting reincarnation. Especially when it’s the fourth time your group has been killed by an embarrassing shared accident. Did we explode this time? Get poisoned? Were we swept away by a tornado while watching Twisters, despite ample warnings that a storm was bearing down on our location and that we might be trading our lives to view a cinematic catastrophe?

Whatever the reason, whoever the culprit, it’s our job to figure them out. Or conceal them, if you were the one responsible for our fellowship’s untimely demise. That’s the Spirit! is as peculiar a social deduction game as they come, chock-full of strange abilities and uncomfortable social circumstances, both on the table and above it. It’s an extended conversation about who screwed up this time. Don’t expect anybody to take responsibility for free.

Review: Afterlives

#3. Adulting

Designed by Eric Dittmore. Self-published.

Not many board games are as charming as Adulting, a title about surviving a hectic weekend full of chores, anxious screen time, and maybe, just maybe, some self-improvement. The core concept is deck-building, but in the most fluid fashion imaginable, cards bouncing in and out of your hand with nearly every action.

But Adulting is also a relationship game almost entirely thanks to its multi-tiered objectives. Everyone at the table must work together to avoid burnout, caused by the pileup of too many chores. At the same time, everybody has a different idea for what they hope to get out of their weekend, and is given free rein over how to pursue that goal. While some players work together to tackle the chores, others are free to irritate their housemates by pursuing their objectives at all costs — or even mark themself as the self-sacrificing parent willing to absorb the group’s stress. The result is an affectionate portrayal of cooped-up group dynamics.

Review: Joy in the Burnout

#2. The Hedgehog’s Dilemma

Designed by Scott King. Self-published.

I’m not actually sure how to describe The Hedgehog’s Dilemma in a snippet. Part fable, part exposition on a philosophical metaphor by Arthur Schopenhauer, and part marriage proposal, this trick-taker covers quite a lot of ground. As in Adulting, the victory conditions provide much of the context. If everyone’s pieces occupy the same space, everybody wins together. If they’re all apart, everybody loses. More likely, if some are together and others are apart, the game kicks over to a scoring phase that grows increasingly desperate and/or thrilling with each successive tally.

There are other wrinkles, but that’s enough to set the stage. Often, all it takes to flip the switch between magnanimous and petty is the reveal of a single card. It feels like a parable in game form, drawing out social behaviors through simple rules and clear incentives. I can safely say I haven’t played anything quite like it.

Review: A Prickle of Trickers

#1. Molly House

Designed by Jo Kelly and Cole Wehrle. Published by Wehrlegig Games.

There’s a warm heart at the center of Molly House; a warm heart that beats in spite of moralizing cruelty, and which might be stilled by fellow hearts that have succumbed to panic. As a “molly” — a queer person in Georgian England, one whose identity likely strikes most of us today as foreign — your task is to find joy among the arcades and drinking-houses of London. This is a fraught business. Almost assuredly a doomed business. But a business worth pursuing nonetheless.

Over the past year, I’ve had the privilege of introducing Molly House to a wide range of players. Some have been like myself. Others have been queer in varying shades. In nearly every case, the response has been a surprising wellspring of empathy. Molly House is, among other things, full of parties both riotous and sad, fidelities and betrayals, and surprises both great and small. Every so often a board game comes along to succeed where every other medium has failed, investing us in a time and place that would otherwise go overlooked. Molly House is that game.

Review: Love and Heartbreak in Georgian London

Whew! That’s a lot of board games about relationships. Did you play any such titles this year? And if so, what were your favorites. Come along now. D.T.R. for me. (Define The Recreation.)

 

(If what I’m doing at Space-Biff! is valuable to you in some way, please consider dropping by my Patreon campaign or Ko-fi.)