“Don’t worry, this will be fun.”

It starts off innocently enough.

After a bout of stress cleaning, you and your wife are hosting a game night with your friends.

Now your friends are the salt of the earth. The kind of people who prefer board games to bars, and after a holiday season of going out, this seems like the mature, simple pleasure night every relationship needs.

You will soon regret this decision because now they’re here, bags heavy, carrying every game you’ve never heard of.

These are games that did not have a marketing budget.

No commercials.
No childhood memories attached.
No glossy branding.

Just board games designed by someone who thought beige walls were colorful.

They lay them out like pirates displaying treasure.

You look to your wife and make eye contact, searching for a better game.

“Now this game,” your friend says, lifting a box labeled Zula: Realm of the Fifth Dominion, “is going to be fun.”

He says it with the quiet confidence of a man who has read the manual twice, then opens the box and out comes the board.

It unfolds.

And unfolds again.

Then sideways.

You move your drink before it gets absorbed into the expansion and your wife slides the snacks to the edge of the table.

All you can see is hexagons, arrows, color-coded zones, and what appear to be pie charts.

Next come the pieces.

All ninety-eight of them.

Tiny wooden cylinders. Miniature castles. Tokens shaped like vegetables, and something that’s not made with plastic.

One rolls toward you. You stop it with your finger and push it back.

And finally, the manual.

It lands on the table with a thud.

You feel your jaw tighten and look over your shoulder at the UNO box.

“Well,” your friend begins, flipping to page one, “the object of the game is to score the most points.”

You nod. That seems reasonable.

“The game is played over six phases.”

… Your nod slows.

“Each round has three seasons,” he continues.

You glance over at the UNO box on the shelf, then back to your table.

That game had a commercial.

“So first,” he continues, “we pick factions.”

You cross your legs. Settle in.

“Wait,” your wife says. “What’s a faction?”

“It just determines your starting abilities.”

“I thought that was a math thing?” she says.

Your hand finds your brow.

“No… that’s a fraction,” you mutter.

Your friend nods.

“Yeah, we all get our own factions.”

Faction cards are passed around. Each has a paragraph of text and an icon that appears to mean something.

You read yours once.

Then again.

You turn it slightly, as if orientation might help.

It doesn’t.

“Well,” your friend says, flipping back a page, “like I said, the object of the game is to score the most points.”

“So… how do you play?” you ask carefully.

“Well…” He scans the page. “Now you need to collect your pawns.”

“Hold on,” your wife says. “What’s a pawn?”

“These are the pawns,” he says confidently, picking up a small blue cylinder.

He pauses.

He squints at the board.

“Oh wait.”

He sets it down. Picks up a slightly different blue cylinder.

“No, these are the pawns.”

You nod once. Voluntary this time.

“Okay,” he continues, “then you each take a ledger sheet and a pencil.”

There are ledger sheets.

You blink.

You feel your shoulders shift.

You were not prepared for ledgers.

You smooth yours out in front of you anyway. It has columns. Boxes, and a  section labeled “The Harvest.”

You tap the pencil against the box labeled “Yield.” Just once.

“Hey,” your wife says suddenly, reaching for her phone, “did we show you pictures of the cat?”

“Oh really?” your friend’s wife says, leaning over.

You blink. “Wait. What do you mean new cat? We’ve had him for months.”

“Well, it’s new to them,” your wife says, already swiping.

The phone makes its small clicking sounds as photos pass by.

Meanwhile, your friend is still holding the manual open, head tilted sideways.

“So then you tally up your resources,” he says, not looking up, “but you divide by the number of territories you control unless you’ve activated your Dominion Card.”

You reach for one of the cylinders and move it an inch.

“Oh — not yet,” he says quickly, not looking up from the manual.

You move it back.

No one responds.

Someone zooms in on the cat’s face.

You glance down at your ledger again. There’s a tiny box next to “Yield.”

You press your pen into it once, just to see how it feels.

“Okay,” your friend says at last, closing the manual with a soft clap that suggests momentum. “Are you ready to start?”

You look at the board.
You look at the ninety-eight pieces.
You look at your untouched ledger sheet.
You look at your wife, who is still mid-photo, then turn to your friend.

“Wait… how do we play?”

Please like, comment, share, and tell me what you think. Has this happened to you?

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