Gamersdungeon.net has been a labor of love for over a decade, and I’m proud of what it’s grown into thanks to the support of readers like you. Today, I want to share an important update: the site will soon begin its next chapter as a monetized platform.
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking, “Does this mean ads?” And yes, it does. There will be ads on the site going forward. That might sound like a downside at first, but I want to be upfront about why this change is happening and what it means for the future.
Monetization isn’t just about keeping the lights on, it’s about ensuring the site can continue to grow, improve, and deliver more of the content you enjoy. Joining an ad network gives us the opportunity to invest more time, resources, and energy into making Gamersdungeon.net even better.
I believe the benefits, from faster updates to expanded features, will far outweigh the occasional banner or sidebar ad. And rest assured: I’ll be doing everything I can to make sure the ad experience stays as non-intrusive and user-friendly as possible.
The Ads
Let’s start with the obvious: yes, there will be ads. But my goal is to make sure that the ads you see here are as relevant, interesting, and actually useful as possible. Think: gaming gear, hobby stores, and cool stuff we already love or might be excited to discover.
In fact, I hope the ads can even become part of the exploration for readers, surfacing new shops, tools, and games you may not have come across otherwise. It’s also a way to support the very companies that support us, many of which send review copies and content to help fuel the site.
I get it, ads can have a bad reputation. They’re often associated with loud, intrusive interruptions (we’re looking at you, unskippable YouTube ads). But that’s not the kind of experience I want here. The ads on Gamersdungeon.net will be kept low-key and respectful, generally appearing at the bottom of pages or tucked in neatly, easy to scroll past or close if they’re not your thing.
Ultimately, the goal is to strike a balance: supporting the site and its future without compromising the quality of your experience.
The Good Stuff
Now for the exciting part, the benefits of monetization.
First and foremost, it will help cover the actual costs of running the site. Beyond just my time and energy (which I’ve gladly poured into this for over a decade), there are ongoing expenses for hosting, software, and services that keep everything running smoothly. Quality matters, and having solid infrastructure behind Gamersdungeon.net and our connected sites is essential to maintaining a good experience. It’s an invisible thing behind the scenes, but the price of it has grown substantially, especially in the last few years.
Based on our past traffic, there’s real potential for the site to generate enough revenue to grow, to do more, and to do it better. I’d love to expand what we did with the Lord of the Rings card game into other areas of the hobby: historical wargames, new LCGs like Star Wars Unlimited, and other exciting games that deserve attention.
I’m also hoping to give back by shining a light on independent creators, game developers, and community projects that I believe deserve more visibility. Through shared writing and projects, we can develop new content that everyone can enjoy.
And there’s another big step coming: community interaction. I’m planning to open up the site for comments, ratings, and discussions, giving readers a voice and turning articles into conversations. That means creating a space where we can all share opinions, ask questions, and engage with the content in a deeper way.
In the past, I have always been against this sort of thing for a simple reason: I neither want to defend my opinion nor deal with internet trolls. To have such a comment section, we need moderation, and that too comes with a cost, especially if you want to have a consistent, respectful, and fun environment.
There may also be more; it really depends on how well the site does and how much income we earn. This site is not intended to be a revenue stream for me, I have a full-time job and don’t need “extra money”, so all money earned through monetization will be reinvested into the site.
Ok that is all for now. Let the next chapter of Gamersdungeon.net begin.
This blog has always been a colorful tapestry of wildly different gaming topics, by design, not by accident. But even within that eclectic mix, clear dividing lines emerge. One of the most distinct is the rift between the broader board gaming community and the niche but passionate world of historical strategy and war games. These aren’t just different genres, they’re almost different cultures within the hobby.
That said, I’m living proof that this divide is more imagined than real. Like many supposed boundaries in gaming, it’s built more on perception than truth. While it’s easy to think of historical war gamers as a cloistered sub-group with their own sacred tomes and hex-filled rituals, the reality is far more fluid. Just as many historical gamers dabble in mainstream modern board games, there’s a growing curiosity among general board gamers about the mysterious and complex world of historical strategy.
But let’s be honest, crossing the bridge from mainstream games to historical war gaming can feel like stepping into another dimension. It’s far easier to move from heavy war games to general board games than the other way around. This is because historical games tend to be deep, dense, and unapologetically complex as a default. What a seasoned wargamer might casually call “light,” most hobby gamers would label “brain-melting.”
Take complexity ratings on BoardGameGeek as a perfect example. Twilight Imperium, a game known for its epic length and interstellar sprawl, clocks in at a weighty 4.33 out of 5. That’s pretty high, unless you’re a historical war gamer. Compare that to Empire of the Sun, a game steeped in the Pacific Theater of WWII, which sits at a 4.39. At first glance, a marginal difference. But in practice, these two games are judged by entirely different standards. Empire of the Sun isn’t just complex, it’s an Everest of a rulebook, dense with nuance and requiring perhaps a hundred hours of study even for experienced players. Its 45-page manual is printed in a font size small enough to make a lawyer squint, functionally the equivalent of a 90- to 120-page standard rulebook.
Twilight Imperium is an exceptional game, and I would easily quantify it as an amazing war game, but it does not fit into the historical strategy/war game genre as historical war gamers define their own genre. Being about a war is not enough.
To a hardcore historical gamer, Twilight Imperium might feel like a breezy afternoon diversion, perhaps a 2 or 2.5 on their personal scale of complexity.
My point is this: complexity and depth are relative concepts, deeply tied to experience and exposure. The world of historical war games isn’t just more intricate, it’s built differently, with its own traditions, expectations, and design philosophies. From minimalist components to standardized presentation styles, these games often look arcane and intimidating, which, let’s face it, they are, but there’s a strange elegance beneath the surface.
Today, I want to share a bit about my own journey into this fascinating world and offer some practical advice for those curious enough to dip their toes into the deep waters of historical strategy and war games. Whether you’re a seasoned Eurogamer looking for a new challenge or a curious newcomer intrigued by the lore of real-world conflicts, this one’s for you.
Some Encouragement & Reality
Speaking as a fairly typical board gamer who took the plunge into historical strategy and war games, let me offer a little encouragement and a dose of reality.
First, if you’re going to dive into this subgenre, you’ll need to be self-sufficient. These games often require solo setup, self-directed learning, and more than a few hours of quiet study. This isn’t a genre where you crack open the box, skim the rulebook, and dive in with a buddy over pizza and drinks. Technically, sure, you could try, but you’re more likely to spend the evening fumbling through obscure mechanics, wondering why nothing makes intuitive sense.
But here’s the twist: that’s part of the fun.
There’s something uniquely satisfying about deciphering a complex historical war game on your own. You’ll set it up, stumble through turns, cross-reference rulebooks, and gradually bring the simulation to life. It’s a solo endeavor at first, almost like reading a dense but rewarding novel. Once you understand it, you’re ready to teach it, not from the rulebook, but from experience. And if that doesn’t appeal to you, it’s probably a sign this genre may not be for you. This hands-on, slow-burn learning process is the hobby.
Twilight Struggle is perhaps the most famous example of a cross-over hit that lives in the historical strategy/war game category and is beloved by serious war gamers, yet has found considerable popularity in mainstream gaming. It’s an exceptional game.
Second, and this is crucial, understanding the actual history behind the game is often key to understanding the game itself. Most historical war games fall into the “simulation” category. That means the mechanics aren’t just arbitrary, they’re grounded in real-world events, logistics, and military doctrine. At first glance, some rules might seem bizarre or even unnecessary. But once you dig into the history, why that mechanic exists, what it represents, it starts to make sense. The design isn’t just about gameplay; it’s about reenactment, grounded in research.
In this way, learning a historical war game often involves learning history. If you find yourself fascinated by the “why” behind a game’s structure, why supply lines matter, why political will ebbs and flows, why reinforcements arrive late, that’s a good sign you’re in the right place. If that level of engagement sounds exhausting rather than exciting, though, you may want to reconsider.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, these games exist in a kind of ecosystem. There’s a lineage of mechanics, design principles, and influences that connect them like branches on a tree. The most complex games often build on systems introduced in earlier, simpler titles. There’s a generational progression, what some call “design DNA.”
For example, jumping straight into Empire of the Sun might be biting off more than you can chew. But games like Washington’s War or Paths of Glory share many of its core mechanics in more digestible forms. They act as stepping stones, easing you into the deeper waters with familiar rules and systems. You’ll find that learning one game helps you understand the next, especially when they come from the same designer or design school. This might be a familiar concept to general board gamers because in kind of works the same way in the mass market. We sometimes call certain games “good introduction games”, for example, Ticket To Ride or Settlers of Catan are often mentioned as good first dives into the larger world of boardgaming. The only difference is that in historical strategy and war games, this tends to be a lot more specific to the target game you want to reach.
That’s why doing a bit of homework goes a long way. Look into game families, designer interviews, and community recommendations. You’ll often find that designers openly discuss their influences, and discovering these connections can help you choose games that fit your current skill level and interests, driving you towards your target game. It’s like crafting your own war gaming curriculum.
In short, historical strategy and war games reward research, patience, and a thirst for learning. If that excites you, then you’re in for a deeply rewarding journey, one filled with rich history, complex mechanics, and a surprising sense of discovery. Your path into the genre won’t just be about finding good games, it’ll be about uncovering stories, systems, and strategies you might never have encountered otherwise.
First Venture
If you’re curious about diving into historical war games, my strongest recommendation is this: start solo. In fact, consider beginning with a game designed specifically for solo play. There’s no better way to test the waters and see whether this niche is more than just a passing curiosity for you.
Thankfully, historical war gaming has a rich and well-established subgenre of solo titles, offering a wide selection of accessible, thematic, and deeply rewarding experiences. Many of these solo games are purpose-built for solo players, meaning the learning curve is often smoother, the rulebooks more forgiving, and the gameplay tailored to your pace.
Even better, these solo titles tend to hover at the lower end of the complexity spectrum, making them a fantastic entry point into the genre. You’ll find more flexibility in terms of theme, length, and mechanics, letting you ease into the broader world of historical strategy gaming without being thrown into the deep end. The best part of solo play is that you can just leave your game up and pick it up whenever the mood strikes you, and that is a huge advantage over trying to put a game night together.
A perfect place to begin is Dan Verssen Games (DVG), a publisher renowned for its high-quality solo-only catalog. DVG has something for almost every historical interest and play style. Want to explore the Age of Exploration? Try the brilliant card-driven 1500: The New World. Curious about command-level warfare? Look into their Leader Series or Field Commander Series, where you take the reins of historical figures or tactical roles across conflicts ranging from the Napoleonic era to modern-day battlefields.
Field Commander Alexander is a fantastic example of a straight to it solo historical war game. It gives you the sensation of control over vast armies as you attempt to achieve conquest in the footsteps of one of the greatest war generals in history.
Whether you want to be a fighter pilot flying missions in the Pacific, a WWII submarine captain, or Napoleon himself masterminding a campaign across Europe, there’s likely a DVG game that covers it and does so in a way that feels personal, strategic, and surprisingly educational.
The key benefit to this solo-game approach is that whatever game you pick, you’ll be laying the foundation for future success in the genre. You’ll learn how historical rulebooks are structured (spoiler alert: they’re different), how to use playbooks and reference sheets effectively, and how certain core mechanics, like zones of control, operational cost cards, influence conflict, supply lines, and turn-based simulation tend to repeat across games. This familiarity becomes invaluable as you graduate to more complex titles and multiplayer experiences.
Starting with solo war games, I think is the best way to go, but let’s talk about the alternative starts, low complexity multiplayer games.
Entry Level Historical Strategy and War Games
One of the most common misconceptions about historical strategy and war games is that they’re defined solely by their connection to real-world events. But in truth, it’s not the historical theme that sets this genre apart, it’s the design philosophy, mechanical complexity, and simulation-based approach that distinguish it from the broader board gaming world.
Take Axis & Allies, for example. It’s a well-known game with clear historical ties, and while it shares some surface-level traits with war games, it doesn’t fully belong to the historical war game genre as enthusiasts define it. It straddles the line, a gateway, perhaps, but it’s ultimately a different kind of experience.
So, while it might be tempting to use cross-over titles like Axis & Allies or Memoir ’44 as stepping stones into deeper waters, the truth is that they offer relatively little in terms of preparing you for the complexities and conventions of true historical war games. These lighter games often strip away the very mechanics that define the genre: logistics, command structures, political abstraction, and long-term strategic depth.
Memoir ’44 is a great title and gives you a small taste of the historical war gaming genre but nothing you learn from this game will prepare you for a typical historical war game in the true sense of the meaning, at least as defined by fans of the genre.
Another important thing to note is that most historical war games are two-player experiences. While multiplayer options do exist, and can be excellent, they’re generally not ideal for beginners. Learning is much easier in a one-on-one setting, especially when both players are invested and focused. For that reason, nearly all the entry-level games I recommend fall into the two-player category. You’ll want a dedicated partner, someone who’s equally curious (or patient enough to let you teach them).
Now, let’s say solo play isn’t your thing. You’re ready to dive headfirst into the genre with a partner at your side. Great news, there are entry-level titles that can ease you in without sacrificing historical depth. In no particular order, here are a few strong candidates I wholeheartedly recommend…
Washington’s War by GMT Games (Designed by Mark Herman)
When it comes to introducing newcomers to the world of historical strategy and war games, Washington’s War is my go-to recommendation, and for good reason. It strikes a near-perfect balance of accessibility, thematic familiarity, and mechanical depth without overwhelming new players.
Here’s why it stands out as an ideal entry point:
1. A Familiar Conflict The American Revolutionary War is one of those historical topics that most people already have at least a basic grasp of. Names like George Washington, the 13 Colonies, and the Boston Tea Party are common knowledge, even for those who aren’t history buffs. That shared understanding smooths the learning curve and creates a sense of immediate connection with the game’s theme.
2. Elegant Simplicity From a complexity standpoint, Washington’s War sits firmly in the “low” zone, no matter who’s doing the judging. But don’t let that fool you; it’s rich in educational value. The game introduces several core mechanics found throughout the genre: point-to-point movement, influence/control mechanics, operational vs. event card play, the use of Generals, and Command Units (CUs). Each of these concepts is presented in a streamlined, easy-to-learn form, offering a solid foundation for more advanced titles down the line. These are concepts you’re going to run across in this sub-genre of gaming all the time.
3. Playtime That Respects Your Schedule Perhaps most importantly, Washington’s War is relatively short by historical war game standards. A full session typically runs about 2–3 hours, a far cry from the all-day marathons many games in this genre demand. That makes it easier to get to the table, easier to find opponents, and easier to revisit regularly.
In short, Washington’s War is a masterclass in approachable design. It captures the essence of historical conflict in a digestible, compelling format, making it, in my opinion, the ideal starting point for anyone curious about stepping into the world of historical strategy and war games.
A bonus here is that this is a Mark Herman game, a name you will become intimately familiar with as you explore this sub-genre of gaming, as he is one of the most prolific and influential game designers in historical war gaming, both past and present.
Sekigahara: The Unification of Japan by GMT, designed by Matt Calkins
In the realm of historical strategy and war games, there’s a subgenre-within-a-subgenre known as block games, and if you stick with this hobby, you’re bound to encounter them. These games use wooden blocks to represent military units, adding elements of fog of war, hidden information, and elegant visual design. Block games are a staple of the historical war gaming scene, and among them, Sekigahara stands tall.
Not only is it one of the best block games ever made (in my opinion), it’s also one of the best historical war games, period (again, in my opinion).
What makes Sekigahara so approachable is how streamlined and intuitive it is. It distills the core mechanics of block games into a clean, smooth-playing experience without drowning players in exception-based rules or overly complex interactions. Better still, it’s a card-driven block game, which makes combat resolution dramatically simpler than many of its dice-based cousins. There are no convoluted CRTs (Combat Results Tables), no constant rulebook flipping. Instead, combat unfolds through card play that adds both tension and strategic depth, all while keeping the gameplay fast and accessible.
And let’s not overlook the setting, feudal Japan, one of the most fascinating and dramatic periods in military history. Sekigahara puts you in the middle of the legendary struggle for control of Japan, fighting to become the next Shogun in a civil war that shaped the nation’s destiny. For anyone who loves samurai warfare, clan intrigue, or grand tactical decision-making, this game delivers.
Beyond the theme and mechanics, Sekigahara does something very important: it teaches you how block games work, the hidden information, the maneuvering, the structure of turns and battles, all in a digestible, elegant package. It’s the kind of game that draws you in with beauty and theme, then teaches you the deeper rhythms of the genre without you even realizing it.
If you’re curious about block games, or just want a fantastic two-player strategy game with historical gravitas and refined design, Sekigahara is an absolute must-play. It’s not only a superb introduction to block games, but it may be the best in the genre.
Holland ’44 by GMT designed by Mark Simonitch
If you’ve spent any time in the historical war gaming world, the name Mark Simonitch probably needs no introduction. He’s a legendary designer known for his brilliant card-driven classics like Hannibal & Hamilcar, Hannibal: Rome vs. Carthage, and Caesar: Rome vs. Gaul—games that blend historical drama with elegant card-driven strategic play. But Simonitch is equally renowned for his work in another cornerstone of the hobby: hex-and-counter wargames.
Among his acclaimed World War II series, which includes Normandy ’44, France ’40, and Ardennes ’44, among many others and my personal favorite is Holland ’44: Operation Market-Garden. It’s the standout title in a consistently excellent lineup.
There are three things that really make this game stand out in my mind as an excellent choice to explore hex and combat warfare on the tabletop.
First, the rules system is intuitive and elegant, especially for the genre. It features core mechanics like zones of control, step losses, terrain effects, and combat results tables, but without the kind of overwhelming complexity often associated with traditional hex-based wargames. It uses a familiar “I go, you go” turn structure, and everything is presented in a clean, logical format that helps you ease into the broader world of hex-and-counter design.
Second, learning Holland ’44 doesn’t just teach you this game, it opens the door to an entire series of similarly structured titles. Once you’ve grasped Simonitch’s system, moving on to other battles in the same line, not limited to but including Normandy ’44, Sicily ’43, Salerno ’43, and more, feels like a natural progression rather than starting from scratch. You’ll already understand the basic rhythms, and each game simply layers on new historical flavor and scenario-specific tweaks.
But the real heart of Holland ’44 is the fascinating historical battle it simulates: Operation Market-Garden, the bold Allied attempt to seize key bridges in the Netherlands in late 1944. The scenario is filled with tension, tight decision-making, and a delicate balance of aggression and caution. The interplay between airborne landings, armored thrusts, and critical chokepoints creates a dynamic and suspenseful experience.
This isn’t a quick game, it will take 4-5 hours so you’ll want to dig in, focus, and commit. But in return, you get a deeply strategic, highly replayable, and richly thematic battle that captures the ebb and flow of this ambitious WWII operation. There’s a unique narrative tension to it, driven by risky gambits and critical timing, especially around bridges and river crossings, that makes every session memorable.
If you’re even remotely curious about the hex-and-counter style of war games, Holland ’44 is a fantastic place to start. It’s approachable, richly historical, and part of a broader system that rewards your time and effort with an expanding world of connected titles. Simonitch’s series isn’t just a masterclass in design, it’s a gateway to a whole new level of historical gaming.
Conclusion
Hopefully, from this article, you got some advice, tips on a few good entry points to the sub-hobby of historical strategy/war games and perhaps found something to research further.
Game selection is, in the end, a personal thing, and I think it would be criminal for me to leave you with just entry-level options without slipping in some of my personal favorites. So in this final bit, I will leave you with a few more entries to consider. These aren’t exactly entry-level games so you will want some experience before diving into these, but I consider them absolute staples of the genre.
Imperial Struggle by GMT Designers Ananda Gupta and Jason Mathews
You’ve probably heard of Twilight Struggle, it’s a titan in the board gaming world, consistently ranked among the top 10 on BoardGameGeek. And while it’s a phenomenal game, it’s not my pick for newcomers to historical strategy games. Instead, I’d point you to a different title from the same acclaimed design duo: Imperial Struggle.
Where Twilight Struggle distilled the Cold War into a tense, card-driven duel of influence, Imperial Struggle goes broader and deeper. It covers the century-long global rivalry between France and Britain, spanning four major wars from the War of the Spanish Succession to the American Revolution. This is a game of world-spanning conflict, military, political, and economic, played out across Europe, North America, the Caribbean, and India.
What makes Imperial Struggle such a strong entry in the influence control genre is how approachable and intuitive it feels, despite its enormous scope. The rules are tight, the turn structure clean, and the gameplay rhythm, once grasped, flows naturally. It’s the kind of game that feels complex in concept but smooth in practice. Within just a few turns, you’ll find yourself fully immersed in maneuvering fleets, shifting alliances, and managing colonial tensions without feeling overwhelmed. You’ll be thinking strategy, no rules absorption.
Even better, the mechanics aren’t overly esoteric. Even if you’re not a die-hard historical gamer, you’ll find the systems relatable and digestible, in many ways more so than its older sibling Twilight Struggle which relied heavily on deck memorization to play it successfully, creating a very high strategic learning curve. The decisions in Imperial Struggle are meaningful, the board state ever-evolving, and the replayability is immense thanks to shifting event dynamics and strategic depth.
I absolutely love this game. It’s one of the crown jewels of my collection, ambitious in design, elegant in execution, and endlessly rewarding to play.
Paths of Glory by GMT designed by Ted Raicer
An absolute classic in the historical war game genre, Paths of Glory was originally released in 1999 and has been consistently updated and refined ever since.
In this game, you command the entirety of World War I from start to finish, using a brilliant card-driven mechanic on a point-to-point map. The claustrophobic nature of trench warfare, the unreliable timing of allies, and the unpredictable escalation of the war are all captured with exceptional nuance; every session unfolds differently.
There are no set routines, no default strategies, no predictable scripts. This is a war you fight on instinct. Yet every decision, every troop movement, every card play, every offensive, is deeply impactful and often dramatic.
When you make a mistake, the consequences are disastrous. When you succeed, you feel like a genius. It’s a game that pulls you in emotionally, and I’ve never met anyone who played it just once. Paths of Glory is practically a self-contained hobby, thanks to its addictive, immersive nature.
It remains one of the finest historical war games ever made and one of the few that captures the full scale and horror of World War I.
Paths of Glory is to historical war games what Agricola is to Euro games, a sort of complex but timeless classic that you could almost say you should play at least once in your life.
The U.S. Civil War by GMT designed by Mark Simonitch
There are only a handful of games I would call a “complete experience” or the “final word” on a historical subject, and The U.S. Civil War is one of them. In my eyes, it’s a masterpiece: a sweeping, deeply nuanced simulation of the entire American Civil War, capturing both the complexity and the inevitability of its outcome.
This game fully embraces the asymmetry of the conflict, as both sides struggle with unsolvable logistical nightmares while fighting a war that often feels impossible to win. It’s not just a historical re-enactment, it’s a “what if” engine. The game asks you: What would you do differently? It gives you the freedom to try, and yet, the more you play, the more you find yourself making the same agonizing decisions the real generals made. It feels like history asserting itself, no matter what path you choose.
That’s the magic of The U.S. Civil War. It’s not only a strategic challenge, but an experiment in inevitability. The simulation is so tight and evocative, it teaches you why history unfolded the way it did, not by telling you, but by letting you live it.
It also happens to be an excellent solo experience. With no hidden information, it becomes a pure strategic exercise, where you’re simply trying to outthink yourself on both sides of the conflict.
This is one of my absolute favorite games. If you’re at all interested in Civil War history, this is the game to play. It’s the crown jewel of the genre.
Empire of the Sun by GMT designed by Mark Herman
The coup de grâce of historical war games, Empire of the Sun is nothing short of a masterpiece. Without question, it is, in my opinion, the greatest board game ever designed, across all genres. It is the final word on what truly brilliant game design looks like.
But brilliance has a cost.
Empire of the Sun is also one of the most complex, demanding, and mentally taxing historical war games in existence. It stretches the very definition of “depth” until it feels like there’s no bottom. A card-driven, operational-level, hex-and-counter simulation of the Pacific War, it pushes the boundaries of what is reasonable to ask of players.
And yet, if you persevere, if you navigate the labyrinth of rules and begin to grasp not just how the game works, but why, you reach a moment of sublime understanding that is unlike anything else in gaming. It’s not just rewarding. It’s transformative. Finding someone else who also knows how to play Empire of the Sun feels like discovering a secret society.
The simulation is extraordinary. Like The U.S. Civil War, you are free to rewrite history, but in Empire of the Sun, the possibilities are endless. You can change the war. Improve on it. Explore it. Reimagine it. The game practically dares you to study history, to go beyond the table and into the depths of books and documentaries, simply to keep pace with what it’s offering you, and each real-world discovery you will be able to apply the game. The simulation is so realistic that real-world knowledge applies.
It is, for the right player, pure bliss. But I won’t pretend it’s for everyone. In fact, I suspect most players will never make it through the rules—and that’s okay.
But if you ever find yourself searching for the ultimate challenge in historical gaming, Empire of the Sun awaits. One of the finest board games ever made, and a towering monument to what this hobby can achieve.
Hope you enjoyed the article, this one was for my historical war gamer readers who I’m almost certain will disagree with just about everything I said, but so it is with historical war gaming. Lots of opinions, lots of personal investment. Finding your own games and routines is a big part of the magic show, so go out there and explore!
Like every year, my gaming crew gathered for a four-day pilgrimage of BBQ, beer, and board games. We call it Hassela Weekend, named after the sleepy little Swedish countryside village where it all goes down. Now in its ninth legendary year, it’s the crown jewel of our gaming calendar and this blog post is the tale of our latest adventure. Enjoy the chronicles!
The Fellowship of the Ring: Trick-Taking Game
We began our journey into the weekend with a cozy warm-up while waiting for the rest of the party to arrive. Enter a charming little trick-taking game for four players, The Fellowship of the Ring: The Trick-Taking Game. This beautifully crafted card game is built on the bones of The Crew, the cooperative classic that made a splash in the board game world just a few years ago.
The crew was quite a hit, for a simple trick-taking game to break into the top 100 on boardgamegeek is a big deal.
The concept is straightforward: work together to complete card “tricks”, without knowing what cards your companions are holding. But, like a mischievous ring of power, there’s a twist. Each mission has special conditions that determine how those tricks must be completed. Unlike The Crew, though, the challenges here aren’t static; there’s actual strategy in planning your quest.
Players choose story-driven characters tied to specific chapters in the Fellowship’s saga, and those roles shape the rules and order of play for each mission. The characters you pick affect not only the constraints but also your chances of success, making the pre-mission phase feel like preparing for a trek through Moria with the wrong crew.
The difficulty escalates with each completed mission, starting out light-hearted and deceptively manageable, until suddenly, you’re Gandalf deep in the Mines, clutching your forehead, wondering where it all went wrong. What starts as a breezy filler becomes a real mental challenge as the tension builds.
Personally, I loved it. It fills the same niche as The Crew, a quick, cooperative brain-teaser but I’m a sucker for the theme, and I found the mission structure tied to the characters far more compelling than The Crew’s more generic objectives.
So, if The Crew hooked you, and you’ve ever dreamed of traveling with Frodo and friends, this one’s a no-brainer. The artwork is gorgeous, the components are solid, and it’s easy to teach yet sneakily addictive. A perfect first step on our Hassela Weekend.
Vampire: The Masquerade – Vendetta
During our Hassela Weekend, each player gets to pick a handful of games to bring to the table, and with five or six of us in attendance, that means you’ve got two, maybe three slots to make your mark. So when I chose Vampire: The Masquerade – Vendetta from a massive library of games, know that it wasn’t just a pick, it was an endorsement of the highest order.
You see, most of us in this group are old blood when it comes to Vampire: The Masquerade. We know the World of Darkness like it’s etched into our souls and in some cases, quite literally. Let’s just say one of the crew may or may not be walking around with their favorite clan’s sigil tattooed on their arm. The passion is real.
Vendetta may not be the RPG, but it’s the next best thing. For a brief, deliciously dark hour, it captures the political paranoia, the whispered alliances, and the backstabbing brilliance of the setting with unnerving precision. It oozes theme. On paper, it’s a simple game: you’re battling for control over various city locations to gain influence (points). But in practice, it’s a shadow war made up of meticulous card placement and expertly executed card abilities.
There are quite a few vampire-based card games out there. I think Heritage tries to be a bit closer to the RPG with the legacy concept, and while I think it’s an excellent game, at some point you have to ask yourself if you’re going to take it this far, why not just play the RPG?
Nothing in this game is fair, and absolutely nothing is safe. You’re constantly watching your back, guessing what your rivals will do, trying to outplay them with deception and ruthless timing. Each clan is a twisted mirror of power, all potent in their own right, but no two alike. Success hinges on your ability to read the room and strike at just the right moment.
We played it with six players for the first time, which splits the table into pairs of unholy alliances. It changes the vibe a little bit: you still want to win, but now you’re also dancing with a partner, plotting your shared rise to power. It works, but I think I prefer to plot the destruction of my enemies on my own.
I adore this game. But I imagine, its fangs don’t bite quite as deep unless your group knows the lore. So much of the nuance, the tension, the delicious little faction details will fly under the radar if you’re not already initiated. But for us, it’s perfection. Vendetta is one of the best V:tM tabletop games out there next to the RPG, ruthless, stylish, and soaked in blood-soaked atmosphere.
Raise The Goblets
Raise the Goblets is, in a word, gloriously dumb, and I mean that as the highest compliment. This is the kind of game that absolutely belongs in your collection, not because it’s deep or strategic, but because it turns your table into a laughing, backstabbing mess of theatrical absurdity.
Firmly planted in the “silly party game” category, this one’s all about slipping poison into your fellow nobles’ drinks while desperately trying not to sip something fatal yourself. The goal is to stay alive, take someone out, and toast to your own devious brilliance.
Each player gets a character with a special power, and then the chaos begins: goblets are swapped, rotated, passed, and spiked with poison, antidote, or occasionally, some actual wine. The whole thing plays like a medieval dinner party gone horribly wrong, and it’s magnificent. At some point, everyone has to drink what is in front of them, but while you can occasionally sneak a peek on your turn, there is so much manipulation going on that most of the time, you haven’t a clue what’s actually in your cup.
At Hassela, we tend to fill our days with heavy, brain-melting games, so something like Raise the Goblets is essential. It’s our palate cleanser, light, chaotic, and guaranteed to generate a few dramatic “death” scenes and outbursts of laughter.
It’s easy to teach, ridiculously fun, and family-friendly in a “Disney villain banquet” kind of way.
Blood Rage
There are games and then there are symphonies.
Eric Lang’s Blood Rage isn’t just a game; it’s the hammerfall of modern board game design. In over ten years of writing for Gamers Dungeon, it remains the only title I’ve ever awarded a perfect 5 out of 5. A decade of reviews, thousands of hours at the table, and still nothing has dethroned it.
Its appearance at our annual Hassela gaming retreat is never in doubt. Even on the rare years it doesn’t make it to the table, its box sits there like a slumbering god, watching, waiting. Blood Rage isn’t a question of if, it’s when.
You might wonder why the devotion?
Because this game is pure, unflinching execution. There are no dice, no randomness, no fate to plead with. Just you, your strategies, and the brutal elegance of a system that rewards only the sharpest minds. The best player will win. No excuses. No mercy.
That’s what makes Blood Rage so satisfying. It’s chess with axes. A ballet of blood and fire. Every move matters. Every draft is a prophecy. Every battle, a poem written in steel and rage. It is area control refined to the finest and deadliest edge.
The theme is flawless. This game doesn’t just use Viking mythology, it embodies it. Ragnarok isn’t just a backdrop, it’s the ticking heart of the game. The art is ferocious, the miniatures stunning, and the production so good it makes lesser games look like goat herding simulators.
The question I often get asked is whether it’s really that perfect, and the short answer is nothing is perfect-perfect, but this is as close as you are ever going to get.
If I were to be brutally honest and in the spirit of Odin’s wisdom, I must be, I’d say there is one hairline crack in this otherwise indestructible blade: the monsters. They’re mighty, they’re beautiful, but over the years of play, we’ve seen their impact dulled by one simple truth: they still need an open spot on the board to function. And when the smartest play is to deny those spots, even the most fearsome beast becomes a caged wolf.
Whether that is a real flaw or just a wrinkle is debatable. A battle scar on a veteran warrior, perhaps. And maybe, in some poetic way, it makes the game better because even the monsters bow to the gods of positioning and control. I don’t know, my crew theorizes about this, and I think most of us agree that we wish the monsters were just ever so slightly more effective in breaking up some of the uncrackable strategies that we have developed.
Blood Rage is more than essential in my opinion. It’s foundational. If you care about game design, hell, if you even pretend to, this belongs on your shelf. Not just to play, but to study. To admire. To inspire.
Wonderful game, top marks since the first time I played it.
Valor and Villainy: Minions of Mordak
First introduced to our crew last year, Valor and Villainy: Minions of Mordak made a triumphant return to the Hassela Weekend lineup, proving its staying power with a second round of magical mayhem and villainous gloating.
Honestly, I’m not surprised. Our group is a bit of a chimera: part deep-strategy tacticians, part storytelling adventurers. The games that tend to hit hardest are the ones that walk the line between tactical depth and thematic flair. Valor and Villainy fits that bill like a wizard in a bathrobe, funny on the outside, but hiding real power under the hood.
It’s got a delightfully goofy fantasy setting, brought to life with hilarious writing and some top-tier cartoon art. But don’t be fooled, it isn’t all jokes and japes. Underneath the humor is a legitimately tactical engine. Sure, it looks like a lightweight romp, but there’s meat on these monster-slaying bones.
That said, it does lean toward the adventure side. Most of the game is spent planning your turn to bash baddies, grab loot, and prepare for the grand finale: the showdown with Mordak, the all-powerful antagonist controlled by one lucky player. Mordak’s job is simply to wipe the floor with the heroes before they grow too powerful.
Now, we’ve had a few sessions where the villain felt like little more than a magical punching bag, and I started to wonder if the balance was a bit off. But this year’s Mordak player brought the heat, playing smart, conserving resources, and nearly turning the tables. The entire game came down to a single, heart-pounding die roll. The heroes won again… but only just. Mordak can win. We know this now, and I think everyone witnessed just how it’s done. The days of easy take-downs are over.
It’s a fun ride. Not my personal go-to genre, but as with all things at Hassela, it’s about shared experiences and giving everyone a turn at the wheel. And really, this one’s a crowd-pleaser, easy to learn and teach. A perfect family game. Picture a parent as Mordak cackling across the table while the kids band together to save the realm. That’s good gaming right there.
Viticulture
I’m not here to stomp on Viticulture. It’s a genuinely clever, tight, and thoughtfully strategic game. It has that elegant Euro charm: plant your vines, harvest your grapes, make your wine, and hope the tourists show up. But in the context of the Hassela weekend? It just didn’t pour right.
There are two reasons why.
First: Viticulture sings best at 3, maybe 4 players. At 5 or 6 (and yes, we played with 6), the game stretches out like a long, slow summer in Tuscany. What’s usually a crisp, hour-long worker placement game becomes a two-to-two-and-a-half hour grind. And for a game this streamlined and abstract, that extra time doesn’t add richness; it adds fatigue. The decisions don’t get deeper. They just get slower.
Second: Viticulture is one of those games where the magic reveals itself on the second and/or repeated plays. If it’s your first time or your first time in a long while, you’ll likely spend the first half of the game just trying to remember how the wine even gets bottled. The strategy, the timing, the flow, they all click beautifully, but only once you know what you’re doing. For newcomers, it’s a slow realization that dawns just a bit too late to be competitive, leading to a kind of disappointment. If you could just get a do-over, you would do so much better.
And unfortunately, at Hassela we had the perfect storm: a full six-player game with half the table either new or rusty. That meant long pauses, muddled turns, and a general sense of “wait, I fucked that up!” No one hated it, but no one walked away glowing either. It was… fine. Just fine. And for a game with this much potential, that felt like a bit of a letdown. Especially for me, since I too had that rusty feeling, but after the game, it started coming back to me, and I remembered why I bought and brought the game with me in the first place.
I think Viticulture is a great game. Just not for six players. And not for a weekend like Hassela, where table time is precious and first impressions matter. I’d be surprised if it makes the invitation list again next year, but who knows? Maybe one day, with a smaller group and a little more wine knowledge, it’ll get the second chance it deserves.
Oath
Oath was, oddly enough, the highlight of the weekend for me. But not because I had an amazing play experience, far from it. The actual game session was long, confusing, and at times frustrating. What made it stand out was something deeper: a fascination with the game’s design, its mechanics, and its ambition. It felt like standing at the gates of something brilliant, even if I couldn’t quite get inside or even fully understand what I was looking at.
Right from the start, Oath pulled me in like the first chapter of an epic fantasy novel. The visual design is stunning, with that distinctive Kyle Ferrin artwork (of Root and Arcs fame) giving the game a unique sense of place and personality. But it wasn’t just the art, it was the concept that really gripped me.
At its core, Oath is a political war game. One player begins as the ruler—the Chancellor and everyone else is an outsider, a potential usurper. But it’s not as rigid as that sounds. Mid-game, you can choose to join the Chancellor and become a Citizen, aligning your goals with theirs… or even betray them later down the line. You can be exiled. You can rise. You can fall. The system is feudal, chaotic, personal, layered with intrigue and shifting alliances. That alone is compelling.
But Oath goes further: it’s a legacy game, not in the tear-up-cards sense, but in how the outcomes of each game shape the world for the next. The sites, the factions, the ruling powers, they evolve. Over time, you create the history of this fictional land. And that idea, that’s the sort of thing I live for in board games. Concepts like this add a layer of personalization that develop into rivalries that can become almost a sub-game within a game, and I think in a way that is what Oath is going for here.
Cole Wehrle, in my eye’s, is one of the most intriguing designers to come along in quite a while. From Root to Arc and John Company, he is putting out games that are redefining what it means to sit around a table with your friends and play a board game. I think Oath might just be one of the most interesting one in his design history yet.
Unfortunately, our session didn’t quite live up to that promise. It wasn’t bad, it was just… off. The game’s mechanics are surprisingly clean and elegant. Move around the map with your warband. Conquer sites. Play and manipulate cards. Manage your limited supply of resources. Simple enough. But the depth isn’t in the actions, it’s in how those actions interact with each other, and in the timing, the strategy, and the layers of emergent storytelling. And we just weren’t ready for that, or perhaps better to say that we didn’t find it in what amounted to a kind of learning game.
Most of us spent the first half of the game just trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do, not because the rules were complicated (they weren’t), but because the game’s nuance is subtle and entirely dependent on understanding your position in the system. It’s not obvious. It doesn’t hold your hand. And if you don’t “get” it early, it’s easy to get lost.
The result was a session that stretched well past five hours for a game that, if everyone knew what they were doing, probably could have been played in two. Six players were too many, especially for a table where most of us were new to the game, and others who had played it had formed negative opinions on previous, but similar learning games, resulting in the game living up to the resulting negative expectations. Four players might have been better. But even then, I think Oath demands a group that’s fully bought in and committed to playing multiple sessions, building a shared history, and exploring the game’s complex social and political possibilities.
And at the Hassela board game event, that just wasn’t the vibe.
What makes this hard is that I genuinely think Oath might be a masterpiece. I really do. But it’s a strange one, difficult to categorize. It’s not exactly a war game. It’s not a pure legacy game. It’s not just a Euro, or an area control, or an RPG-adjacent narrative builder. It’s Oath. And I think that’s the problem, it might just be a little too unique for its own good.
You have to love this kind of game to even want to “get it.” It’s not about rules comprehension, though; it’s about being attracted to this peculiar blend of theme, tension, abstraction, and emergent narrative. You need a group willing to lean into the strangeness and stick around long enough for the game to reveal its depth. At least this is my impression, whether Oath actually has that depth I would hope to find remains to be seen and I’m not sure I’m going to get the opportunity to find out.
Oath will probably end up back on the shelf, gathering dust based on this first playthrough. I don’t think it quite gripped anyone in the same way as it did me. And that’s a shame. Because I want to try again. I want a second run, maybe even a full campaign with the right group. I want to see what this game can become and whether or not the game I’m hoping to find there actually exists. But I don’t know how to get there, or how to convince four to six other people to go there with me.
I’m not sure any of that makes sense, but basically, to me, the game I experienced during this weekend and the game that is in the box, I suspect, are not the same thing. I like to think of myself as being pretty perceptive and in tune with game design, given that I have been playing and writing about games for several decades at this point, and what I can say is that it’s quite rare for me to find something truly unique like Oath.
I think there is something under the hood here, and I’m very curious to explore it further.
Empires: Age of Discovery
Age of Discovery has long been a flagship title at our Hassela weekend, our own trusted galleon in a sea of changing tastes. It’s hit the table many times over the years, usually to triumphant applause. But this time… something felt different.
It wasn’t the game’s fault, per se. The sails are still crisp, the cannons still loaded. But perhaps the winds of modern board gaming have shifted. Worker placement games have evolved dramatically in the past decade, and Age of Discovery, once a towering conquistador of the genre, now feels a bit like an old empire grappling with new revolutions.
That said, Age of Discovery is more than just a worker placement game, and perhaps that is at the heart of the issue. It’s an abstract colonization simulator disguised in a worker placement cloak. The placement of your workers is only the opening maneuver, a careful disembarkation before the real expedition begins. What unfolds after is a tense struggle for land, gold, exploration, and domination. This is a game of empires, and if you fall behind, you will get crushed.
And in true imperial fashion, it’s not always polite.
Age of Discovery has teeth. Actions taken here can leave scars, players jockeying for position, muscling one another off prime territory, blocking moves, stealing opportunities. It’s not the gentle farming of Agricola or the tidy capitalism of Viticulture; it’s a game that evokes the cutthroat nature of colonial expansion, where every decision echoes with ambition and consequence. In a six-player game, 2-3 players are just going to get left behind in the dust, and you might have a couple of people actually competing by the end for the crown and glory. The game lacks comeback mechanics, so it’s not uncommon to see your empire’s impending failure as early as the end of the first age, a quarter into the game. That is a tough pill to swallow.
Personally, I still think it’s one of the best worker placement games ever made. If I drew up a map of the top 10, Age of Discovery would land firmly near the top. But I’ll admit my chart is a bit outdated. I haven’t explored many newer worker placement titles, maybe because I found my favorite harbors long ago and dropped anchor.
Still, Age of Discovery has what I want: thematic depth, strategic brutality, and a sprawling table presence. It feels like the Age of Exploration. You send your settlers across vast oceans, claim the unknown, clash with rivals, and build your legacy one exploited province at a time. Sometimes the endeavor is a failure, and as brutal as it can feel to be defeated, it’s part of the game.
One drawback I do think the game has is that it can feel a bit long, especially at six players and especially if you’re doing poorly. But then again, empire-building isn’t a short-term project.
If you like your Eurogames with salt in the air and the occasional knife in the back, Empires: Age of Discovery is worth charting a course for. Just remember, this is no friendly trading voyage. This is conquest. This is colonization. And in this game, history is written by the victor.
Bang The Dice Game
Just a quick mention, this staple of the Hassela weekend has been played every year since we discovered it. I have no idea if it’s a “good game” by any measure of the definition beyond the simple fact that it’s silly fun. It’s a perfect filler, and it has the charm of combining hidden identity and the chaos of dice into one game. It’s not quite of the same caliber as Love Letter or Coup, but sometimes games weasel their way into a gaming group’s playlist for ineffable reasons.
Make of that what you will.
Red Rising
Once labeled “absent of any endorphins” at last year’s gathering, I was genuinely surprised to see Red Rising return to the table at Hassela. Yet there it was, quiet and unassuming.
Red Rising is a strange creature. On its surface, it seems like a mere diversion; its rules are straightforward, even sparse, but beneath that veneer lies a machination of choices, a lattice of decisions so tight and intricate that you can actually miss it, which is what I think happened last time we tried it.
Every card you place is both a sacrifice and a step toward dominion. You build alliances in your hand while burning them on the table, all in service of progress across shifting tracks that you have to pace carefully. Every move is a compromise.
What makes it so treacherous and perhaps brilliant is that the end looms like a whisper, never certain, always threatening because it’s based on the very tracks that score you points. You don’t know exactly when someone will trigger the final curtain call, and getting caught unprepared before your hand is ready is devastating, yet stalling it for fear of the end is equally bad. It’s a rare thing: a game where the tension builds without spectacle, a slow-burn conspiracy played in plain sight. I would argue that at the very least, we can call Red Rising clever.
And perhaps that’s why it was better this time. We understood the contours a bit more, the rhythm of its strange economy. The crew around the table, fond of card-driven intrigue, seemed to resonate with it more deeply this time around. The verdict is still out, but for now, Red Rising has earned a cautious reprieve.
It’s a quick affair, once the rules and the general strategy of the game are known. Not quite a filler, not quite a feast, but something like a tactical interlude between wars. I’d return to its cold, calculating corridors again, but I’m not sure I’m ready to recommend it. I would put it in the “curiosity” category. I think some tables might like it.
Dead of Winter
I have a rather tumultuous relationship with Dead of Winter. Sometimes it grips me like a survival thriller I can’t put down, tension rising, frost creeping up the edges. Other times, it drags like a limp dick through snow, cold, sluggish, and joyless. And then, just when I think I’m done with it, some spark reignites the flame like an ex-girlfriend who seems less crazy in a bikini.
The truth is, Dead of Winter has a lot going for it. I love the premise, zombie apocalypse survival with narrative tension. I love games with storytelling, and this one clearly has effort behind its writing. The Crossroads system is brilliant, and mechanically, the game is clever. It should be one of my favorites in theory.
But it’s not.
And the reason is simple: I absolutely loathe the win conditions.
At the core of Dead of Winter lies a conflict, not just between the colony and the undead, but between the game’s mechanics and my philosophy as a gamer. Each player receives a personal objective. To win, you must both ensure the colony’s survival and complete your private task. Tasks that, more often than not, directly jeopardize the group’s success.
Now, thematically, I think it’s on point. It captures the desperation and selfishness of a crumbling world. But as a player, as someone who sees games as a battlefield of wits and willpower, I just can’t abide by it.
Because here’s the deal: I don’t play to help someone else win. If I’m going down, I’m dragging the whole colony into the snow with me. And when that moment comes, the moment I sabotage the group to chase my own victory, tempers flare. People see it as not just selfishness in a game environment, but a sort of player selfishness, and get genuinely upset as a result. I don’t just get in-game exiled, but it draws out real-life irritation. And I get it. But I also don’t. Because to me, a game is a war with rules. We all know what we signed up for. I’m here to win.
The problem is Dead of Winter wants it both ways. It wants cooperative tension and personal ambition. It wants trust and treachery. And in that tug-of-war, it often creates a confused, emotionally charged experience. One I’m not always in the mood to navigate. The game leaves me with an odd kind of dread, not from the zombies or starvation, but from the awkward social fallout that’s almost guaranteed to follow when I sabotage our chances chasing my own victory. It’s made worse by the fact that the game is pretty unforgiving; more often than not, if someone pursues their personal victory, they are likely to tank the game.
Add to that the pacing issues; it’s just too damn long. Even in its shorter forms, I often feel like the frost sets in around the third crisis too many. And this time at Hassela, we chose a long, brutal scenario; it really dragged on, we were on like our third hour when we finally lost the game, and we were technically only 50% done. I think had we actually won and finished the game, it would have easily hit the 5-6 hour mark if not longer.
That said… I still can’t fully walk away from it, and the end game result from this weekend’s game is exactly why. It was hands down the best execution of a betrayer that I have seen in this or any other game, ever..period. Despite screwing us in plain sight, one of the players had us all convinced that he “accidentally” put in the wrong card in the crisis deck, a moment of theatre only a true psychopath could have pulled off. It’s brilliant and hilarious stuff like that, that can only happen in games like this and that may be reason enough to play it.
There’s something compelling about the way Dead of Winter wraps theme, story, and survival in such a sharp, splintered package. It’s a game I admire. It’s a game I sometimes enjoy, but it certainly has some glaring flaws that get in the way of the fun.
Lords of Waterdeep
The final game of the weekend was a stone-cold classic: Lords of Waterdeep, played with the Scoundrels of Skullport expansion.
It’s a simple D&D-themed worker placement game, elegant in its clarity, yet layered with just enough interaction and tension to keep everyone leaning forward. It’s clever without being exhausting, competitive without being cutthroat. A perfect wind-down after three intense days of gaming.
By the fourth morning, we were all running on fumes. The last game is always a bit of a solemn occasion. You can feel the end creeping in: the bags are half-packed, the snacks are dwindling, and the sunlight feels more like Monday than Sunday. But Waterdeep has a way of waking you up. Something about the logic of it, the satisfying little cube puzzles, the gentle engine-building rhythm, just gets your brain clicking again.
There’s interaction here, sure. Intrigue cards, blocking key spots, stealing quests. it’s not a passive game. But the stakes feel friendly. It’s the kind of game where even when someone snatches the agent space you desperately needed, you sigh, smile, and adjust. And let’s be honest, that is the real villain of Waterdeep: someone taking the spot you were eyeing for the last three turns.
I’ve always had a soft spot for this one. It knows what it is. No fluff, no filler, just clean mechanics and a clear path to victory. Everyone knows what to do. Everyone has a shot. Games are often close, especially at our table, where we’ve all played it so many times that victory is more about finesse than luck.
I’m not even sure if it’s still in print. It might be one of the last survivors from our early days, a game that predates Hassela, and for some of us, even predates our friendships. An oldie, but a goodie. And the perfect note to end on.
Conclusion
That’s it, that’s Hassela 2025, the 9th year – done. As is always the case, the games are mostly just a distraction, while I love the competition, the whole point is for a crew of friends to get together and spend a few days away from the hustle and bustle of our lives.
All and all I think it was a good list this year, but I was a bit disappointed that we didn’t introduce more new games. Oath was really the only completely new game to me , unless you count the Fellowship of the Ring Trick Taking Game, which was fun but didn’t really feel “new” in the truest sense.
Oath, however, did have me spinning. I love discoveries like that. Hope to see that one hit the table sometime soon.
Hope you enjoyed the article, see you next year, Hassela!
One of the unexpected perks of hurtling toward the half-century mark, aside from creaky knees and reading glasses, is having grown up with the world’s greatest roleplaying game: Dungeons & Dragons. For as long as I can remember, this game has been a part of my life, sometimes in the background, sometimes front and center, but always there, like an old friend ready to spark the imagination.
And one of the greatest joys of D&D is passing it on to others and watching them discover the game as I did in my youth.
This summer, my family escaped to the sun-drenched hills of Tuscany, where we rented a villa nestled among vineyards and olive groves for two blissful weeks. It was an Indian summer, the air thick with heat, our days melting away by the pool. But as the sun dipped behind the cypress trees and the cicadas finally fell silent, a new tradition emerged. Dungeons & Dragons by moonlight.
My players ranged in age from 12 to 20, kids from my extended family, including my own, and for many of them, this was their first taste of the game. We cracked open the Essentials Kit and plunged into Dragons of Icespire Peak. Our first evening began with character sheets and dice, laughter and name-picking, as we stepped into the legendary Forgotten Realms on a quest to slay a dragon.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure how it would go. This is a generation raised on iPads and X-Boxes, a digital world of instant gratification. I half expected eye rolls or short attention spans.
What I got instead was lightning in a bottle.
From the very first session, the spark caught. D&D didn’t just become part of our vacation routine; it became the reason to clear dinner plates faster than ever before. The excitement was palpable. The story, the characters, the dice rolls, they were hooked. It was electric.
For them, it was magic. For me, it was something deeper. Watching them discover the wonder of tabletop storytelling in real time was like watching fireworks go off behind their eyes. There’s something incredibly moving about seeing a new generation fall in love with something that shaped your own youth.
In a word, Pure magic.
A Game About Rules You Don’t Follow
When introducing Dungeons & Dragons to a new group, especially adults or seasoned gamers, there’s a sacred ritual: session zero. You take your time. You explain the rules. You build characters thoughtfully. You lay down the groundwork for the campaign like a careful gardener planting seeds.
But when your players are kids?
They just want to fight the dragon!
Their impatience was a jolt, a glorious, chaotic reminder of what D&D really is. Yes, it has rules. Yes, there are mechanics and modifiers and sourcebooks full of fine print. But none of that matters if you’re not having fun pretending to be a sword-swinging, ale-guzzling hero with a questionable moral compass.
There have been a few different starter sets for 5th edition Dungeons and Dragons, but I think the Essentials Kit is one of the most complete and arguably the most flexible. It includes rules for creating your own characters, a campaign that takes players through 6th level, and has additional material like cards and a DM Screen. Most importantly it’s an adventure about fighting a dragon, which I think is sort of on point with new player expectations.
The kids didn’t care about encumbrance. They didn’t ask what armor class was or how spell slots worked. What they did care about was choosing the coolest-looking helmet (even though modern D&D doesn’t have rules for helmets) and ordering a frothy mug of tavern ale (because pretending to be drunk is, apparently, hilarious).
They wanted to dive headfirst into the fantasy and so we did.
We built 1st-level characters lightning-fast: 4d6, drop the lowest, straight down the line. Four classic classes—Fighter, Rogue, Cleric, Wizard. No agonizing over feats or backstory minutiae. In less than 20 minutes, we were on the road from Neverwinter, headed toward the sleepy frontier town of Phandalin, backpacks light, coin purses jangling, stomachs growling.
I told them they were running low on rations, poorly equipped, and unprepared for the dangers ahead. They ignored all of it. Naturally. Because five minutes later they stumbled upon the corpse of a murdered merchant, Orc tracks leading off into the woods and that was all the motivation they needed.
They were in.
There is a new starter set coming out later this year called Heroes of the Borderlands based on the classic 1st edition adventure Keep on the Borderlands. This robust set clearly targets a younger audience and looks like it will be quite perfect for introducing new players to the game with lots of visuals and extras to help make the introduction as easy as possible.
They didn’t know the rules. They didn’t need to. What they did know was that something had happened. Something bad. And these make-believe heroes were going to chase those orcs into the forest and make them pay, because they knew what Orcs were, they had all seen The Hobbit.
It was everything D&D is meant to be: danger, mystery, and bold, messy heroism.
Every face was locked in. Eyes wide, pencils nervously chewed, dice clutched tight. When I asked, “Who’s tracking the orcs?” and introduced the very first Survival check, you could feel the energy spike like a lightning bolt hitting the table.
The Rogue rolled a natural 20.
They followed the trail right to a clearing where a band of orcs sat around a campfire, drinking and laughing. Before anyone could strategize, the Fighter slammed their fist on the table and shouted, “I attack the Orcs with my Axe!”
One of the other players protested, but it was too late.
“The Fighter takes off running. The rest of you better catch up”, I told them.
Boom. Chaos. Laughter. Screams of delight.
Pure D&D magic.
What is D&D?
When I first sat down to write this article, I wasn’t sure what it was going to be about. I just wanted to tell the story, because even the act of writing it out stirred something in me. A kind of quiet, emotional tremor. Watching those kids, my kids and nephews, discover Dungeons & Dragons the way I once did was more than just heartwarming. It was life-affirming.
I’ve spent my life playing games. Role-playing games, miniature games, board games, you name it. And if you’re like me, you know the looks you get. The raised eyebrows. The half-smirks from people who have never had a gaming table in their lives. Even my wife, who’s known me for over 25 years, has often looked at me with a kind of affectionate confusion.
Why does a grown man care so much about all this?
But this time… I saw something different in her eyes.
She watched what was happening around that table, not just the game, but the way the kids leaned in, eyes wide, hanging on every word and I think, for the first time, she really got it. And then something happened that neither of us expected.
One day, the adults decided to go on a wine tour through the Tuscan countryside. It was going to be a long day of vineyard-hopping and child-free relaxation. No D&D that night, the kids would be left to their own devices. There was some grumbling, of course, but we kissed them goodbye and set off for a day of indulgent day-drinking.
When we returned, we braced ourselves for the usual post-unsupervised chaos. But there was no chaos. No screens. No locked bedroom doors.
Instead, the kids were all gathered around the table again, playing Dungeons & Dragons, on their own.
Dungeons and Dragons in my day was a big mystery; it was not a very approachable game, but the vivid art combined with that mystery of discovering the game through the many books printed for it was absolutely irresistible to me.
My son had taken the mantle of Dungeon Master. Despite barely knowing the rules, he was narrating a story, guiding the others through improvised adventures. They were telling tales, fighting monsters, completely immersed in a world they’d decided to build together.
No one told them to do it. No one handed them a script. They just wanted to.
They’d even drawn portraits of their characters, hoping, of course, to earn some extra XP from me when the campaign resumed. And before I could even step fully through the door, they were on me with rapid-fire questions:
“Why didn’t you tell us about Saving Throws?”
“There’s a Paladin class? What about Barbarians?, Why didn’t you tell us!?”
“Why didn’t you tell us about D&D Beyond!?”
It was… stunning. These screen-savvy, digital-native kids had unplugged themselves. They weren’t mindlessly scrolling, or zoning out, or retreating into the isolation of algorithms and apps. They were creating. They were collaborating. They were lighting up a part of their brains and their hearts, which too often lies dormant in today’s world.
And that, right there, is what D&D is. That’s what it’s always been.
It’s not just dice and rules. It’s freedom. It’s pure creative expression. It’s a primal kind of joy, something ancient and instinctual that lives inside every person. Some people find it in books. Some in painting, or sculpting, or dancing. But when you sit down at a table, look your friends in the eye, and say, “What do you do?”, you’re unlocking something sacred.
D&D is a release valve for the imagination. A bridge to wonder. A reminder that we are all still storytellers, no matter how old we get.
So, if there’s a takeaway from all this, it’s simple.
Daggerheart, the latest addition to an ever-increasing number of new RPG’s is the brainchild of Matt Mercer and Critical Role, perhaps the most famous DM and RPG group in the world. This new game stands as a challenge not only to modern RPG traditions but modern RPG design. In particular, given that Critical Role as an entertainment show has been using D&D 5th edition for the past several years, for them to release their own system also begs the question if Daggerheart will also attempt to challenge the grandaddy of RPG’s, Dungeons and Dragons, in the RPG space.
Today, we are going to talk about all things Daggerheart, specifically what makes it one of the most unique entries into the world of RPGs in quite a while, in my opinion.
Quick disclaimer: this is not a review. I will get to a Daggerheart review in the future, but I’m a stickler for my approach to reviewing an RPG. I need to both play it and run it in extensive campaigns before I find my footing. So this is going to be more of a theoretical approach to what Daggerheart is in the larger landscape that is the RPG hobby, based on my initial exposure. Get ready, this is going to be a thinky one!
The Modern RPG Contradiction
Role-playing games occupy a peculiar and brilliant corner of the tabletop universe. Unlike board games, card games, or miniature wargames, where rules are rigid and absolute, RPGs hand you a rulebook and say, “Use this as a starting point. The rest is up to you.” That invitation to interpret, bend, customize, or even ignore rules isn’t a loophole; it’s the soul of the hobby, one that traces its roots back to the earliest days of 1st edition Dungeons & Dragons.
Call it playstyle, homebrewing, or house ruling. It’s a mixture of personal taste, table culture, and shared traditions; it’s the unspoken glue that binds every campaign and shapes every session. It’s how a GM and his group take an RPG and make it their own, unique thing.
More precisely, a playstyle is when you define what a game is about conceptually, and then create rules that determine how the game is about that. This is largely guided by the RPG itself, but it’s the GM and player-made adjustments to the rules and their method of execution that truly define the tabletop experience.
Rulebooks often try to guide this process of personalized adjustment, encouraging groups to shape their own experience, but the real power has always rested with the players’ imaginations and the flexibility of the rules to leave space for such dynamics.
The problem is that this tradition of flexibility rarely survives contact with modern game design. Take Pathfinder 2e as an example: its GM Guide insists you’re free to tweak and reshape the system to fit your style of play. It even identifies different styles of play in generic examples.
But the game’s intricate mechanics tell another story, one of tight design and structural complexity that resists improvisation in favor of deliberate mechanical execution. It’s a common contradiction: many RPGs preach inclusivity of adaptive playstyle and flexible, adjustable, and customizable rules, but fewer and fewer empower it. They just don’t leave sufficient room in the design for GM’s and players to deliver their own take on what it means to play an RPG at the table. In the end, what the game is about is overwhelmingly influenced, if not entirely controlled, by the rules, regardless of the sales pitch that it can “be anything you want.”
I enjoyed my group’s foray into Pathfinder 2nd edition, but mainly because I love playing RPG’s with my friends. I found the system to be clunky, overbearing, and largely impractical for telling good stories. In the end, it just got in the way too often.
Over the years, role-playing games have grown more rigid, gradually drifting away from their improvisational roots; even modern D&D is more tactical miniature game than it is role-playing game today. What was once a living, breathing tradition of tailoring RPGs for your table has become more of a footnote, something paid lip service to in theory, but not fully embraced in practice. This stems largely from rules becoming far too heavy and far too complex to adapt, but it also stems from the acceptance by RPG culture of this gradual shift away from personalized creativity being the heart of the game and RAW (Rules as Written) being the foundation of how you play RPGs.
Put simply, they don’t make RPGs like they used to, and players have gotten used to how they make RPGs today.
Matt Mercer and his critical role cohorts seem to understand this shift and have created a game that is a sort of counterargument to how modern RPG design thinks RPG’s should work. From Daggerheart’s perspective, role-playing games are theatre, and Daggerheart embraces the ideals of narrative and personalized creativity in play as the core element of the game.
No two groups will ever play Daggerheart the same way, and that is exactly what the game intends to happen, dare I say, as did classic-old school RPG’s of the nostalgic days of 1st edition D&D.
Daggerheart, in a word, is a throwback to the old school idea that role-playing is a game of make-believe, of collaborative storytelling and having fun with our brains without the nitty gritty rules infiltration so common in the much heavier modern rules systems.
That’s exactly what makes Daggerheart such a refreshing and frankly, radical entry in the modern RPG scene. It doesn’t just tip its hat to the idea of bringing back narrative and improvisational playstyle as a central part of the game; it builds the entire game around it and it does it with the freshness of evolved modern game mechanics.
Now, I use the term modern RPG design loosely here. The truth is that in the OSR (Old School Revival) and the countless game designs it has influenced over the last couple of decades, this approach has become practically commonplace.
Amazing titles like Blades in the Dark, Dungeon World, and Forbidden Lands, just to name a couple, have shown that narrative-first is a part of modern game design, and this playstyle is alive and well.
Blades in the Dark introduced the concept of tension timers, just one of the DM tools implemented into Daggerheart that I think is absolutely brilliant for creating… well… tension at the table in an abstract way.
When I complain about modern game design, I’m referring more to the mass market titles like Pathfinder and Dungeons & Dragons that aim to be and should be the leaders of the pack. The reality is that D&D & Pathfinder are more leaders because of brand recognition than actual design. In truth, D&D in particular as a mechanic hasn’t been relevant or contributed anything to game design worth talking about in a couple of decades. Popular, sure, good game design… hardly.
The Lost Art Of Trusting GM’s
Daggerheart gives you a flexible framework and then invites you to fill in the gaps with your group’s imagination, while being a simple enough mechanic that it leaves the much-needed room for adaptation and messing with the rules. It’s not just a set of rules, it’s a guided invitation to co-create something that’s wholly yours, with the rulebook itself acting like a veteran GM whispering, “Here’s how to make it sing.” I haven’t read something this inspiring and this motivating since the original 1st edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Dungeon Master’s Guide written by the original Dungeon Master, Gary Gygax himself.
This philosophy runs deep in Daggerheart, embedded in the very DNA of the game. Take Campaign Frames, for example, a mechanic that demonstrates how the system encourages you to mold the experience to your liking, rather than conforming to a preset or default adventure play style. The message is clear: Daggerheart is a rules-light RPG designed for you to build your own vision of an RPG, to create your own tabletop experience.
Yes, Daggerheart has rules. This isn’t a narrative free-for-all any more than AD&D was. The system offers real structure. But where most RPGs clamp down with mechanical rigidity in specific areas, combat being the usual culprit, Daggerheart keeps the same loose, narrative rhythm in every scene. Whether you’re in a fight, a social encounter, or exploring the unknown, you’re operating under the same flexible-open system. There’s no gear shift into “tactical mode.” Instead, mechanics serve the flow of imagination, not the other way around. In this way, it’s a massive improvement on the classic premise of GM and player empowerment.
Daggerheart is a narrative-first game, and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else. This isn’t a system that offers modular options for tactical-minded players or crunchy alternatives for combat purists. The foundation is story, full stop. But not in the sense of “let’s bolt a story onto a tactical mini game.” No, Daggerheart flips that. It says: you bring the story, and the mechanics will help you realize it at the table.
1st edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons was first and foremost a game about telling stories, it did it very differently from how Daggerheart does it, it was more escoteric, about the specific way in which player characters survived terrible locations like Dungeons, but it’s unique almost free-form and unintrusive way it did it and how much trust in put in the hands of the GM made it very unique compared to what RPG’s look like today. There is no question the influence this version of the game has on Matt Mercer and Daggerheart.
It shows how much Daggerheart designers trust GM’s to be the foundation of the game and assumes that the players can collaborate and tell story’s without trying to control them with mechanical boundaries.
Read any modern RPG today, and you will read a rulebook that tells you about all the things you can’t do by giving you a broad number of things that you can. Broad means tons of rules, yet it is still effectively a barrier to control. Modern RPGs proclaim to give you freedom, but their rules don’t offer it.
That does lead us to the real question: how does Daggerheart do all of this?
Duality Dice – Fear & Hope
At its core, Daggerheart revolves around a single, elegant mechanic: the duality dice, two d12s, one representing hope (good), the other fear (bad). This system isn’t just part of the game, it is the game. And for players used to the layered mechanics of D&D and its many cousins, that realization might trigger a natural question: “Is that all there is?”
The answer is both yes and no.
If you’ve read anything about Daggerheart online, you’re probably already familiar with the basic concept, but let’s recap for posterity. Whenever a character takes an action that calls for resolution, you roll both dice. The combination of the two determines success or failure. The color of the die tells you something more: was it a success tinged with hope or fear, or a failure steeped in hope or fear? Whichever side wins, hope or fear, earns a narrative and mechanical resource for the corresponding party: players gather hope, while the GM collects fear.
These resources are both fuel for mechanics and the narrative. Hope and fear are spent to power special abilities, trigger story effects, or escalate tension. Succeeding with fear, for example, often means you get what you want, but at a cost. It’s a narrative complication baked directly into the mechanics, with mechanical resources to extend that into the gameplay.
This system is incredibly straightforward, and intentionally so. Its job isn’t to simulate reality, it’s to drive the story forward with risk, reward, and consequences. And it demands storytelling in both directions: before the roll, to frame the action, and after the roll, to interpret the result.
Now, on the surface, that may seem familiar; most RPG’s do something similar, D&D included. But it’s only when you dive into the mechanical use of hope and fear that the game’s true nature reveals itself and, perhaps more importantly, when you realize that this is it, it’s the whole game. Because of this, you might wonder about how different the experience will be as a result.
Everything in Daggerheart flows from this system, social encounters, adventuring encounters, combat, all of it. There are no modes or shifts into alternative resolution systems for specific types of scenes.
Hope gives players the tools to act boldly. Fear gives the GM power to twist the knife. That back-and-forth narrative direction drives the entire game, and there is not much mechanically beyond that. This is essentially where all the “crunch” lives, not in complex subsystems or stacks of rules, or modes of play, but in how these emotional resources interact to build tension and excitement scene by scene, action by action. The game expects you, the player, to fill in the blanks. It’s your story, and how you tell it is the game.
Neither using dice to help tell a story nor using resources like Hope and Fear is a new concept. Star Wars Edge of the Empire uses a similar mechanic with light and dark side points for example and it’s executed beautifully in this game. I was surprised it was not mentioned as an inspiration for Daggerheart, it felt so familiar.
Again, this is not a new concept. Games have been doing this for years, but this is the first time a company with real clout in the RPG world has done that in the modern era, and that’s important. You have to realize that there is an entire generation of gamers out there that only know RPG’s from what 5th edition D&D offers, and that is an extremely limited scope.
For me, it worked in the same way it worked in the 80s and 90s with classic D&D or Vampire The Masquerade. After just two sessions, I won’t pretend I’ve got a complete grasp of it, or even know if it has the long-term legs over a more traditional system. But it felt right, and I suspect that not only will Daggerheart be a thing, it may just very well become THE thing for me because of this simple yet robust and informative dice mechanic. It reminded me so much of all the reasons I got into RPG’s to begin with and how in the modern era the signals of what it means to play an RPG have become mixed up.
That’s because my preferred playstyle is about doing what feels right for the character and for the scene in the moment, rather than letting the system be the filter that defines what is possible or optimal. I don’t want to scan a character sheet looking for efficient moves or actions, I want to act, narrate, and let the dice add to the drama. In that respect, the hope-fear mechanic felt like it had my back. In the spirit of full disclosure, I would describe myself as a theatre kid if I were to categorize my RPG preferences. I write stories, I read stories, and when I play an RPG, I want to live the story.
What I don’t enjoy is being restricted by what my character can do or might be optimally expected to do on paper. If I want to “sweep the leg” because it fits the scene, I don’t want to be told I need a specific feat, class, or ability to do it well. I want the story to lead and the rules to follow. That sort of more structured crunch I like in my board games, card games, and miniature games, that rigid “here are your options” play style fits better with such games. In an RPG, I need freedom, and I don’t want the rules to punish me for exercising my imagination because I failed to make the optimized mechanical choice during some character creation step or advancement.
That’s the bones of Daggerheart’s dice system: a narrative-first system, where every scene, combat, conversation, and exploration flows through the same lens. It’s driven by pure imagination, a pair of dice, and a mechanic that listens and responds with the assumption that your imagination is all that is needed to play a role-playing game. The dice, they are just here to occasionally spice things up, to give you something to play off.
For me, that’s a huge part of why this game clicks. It supports the way I love to play RPGs, the question is, will it do the same for other fans of fantasy games like D&D in the modern era of gaming culture?
The answer, I think, is complicated.
The Challenge
The challenge, as I see it, is that many tables may stumble over what Daggerheart doesn’t offer, namely, the mechanical structure that modern players have come to expect. Things like mode switches from “story time” to “combat time” are deeply ingrained in the DNA of today’s most popular systems. It’s not hard to see why so many games, from Tales of Valor to DC20 to Draw Steel, all echo D&D’s approach: it provides a clear, familiar rhythm. Narrative leads to mechanics, which leads to story outcomes, in clean, modular segments. Daggerheart simply doesn’t work that way. It’s a game where narrative leads to more narrative and the mechanics are a sort of backdrop that occasionally says ,”Well hello there!”, just to spice things up
And that’s not just a missing feature, it’s a statement of intent.
Take something as basic as turn order. In D&D, initiative answers the question: “What happens next?” It’s mechanical, structured, and impartial. In Daggerheart, that question is handed right back to the table. “What should happen next?” What makes sense for the scene, the moment, the emotion of the story you’re building together? There are no infiltrating mechanics that you will trip over that say, “No, you can’t do that, it’s not your turn. That’s just one of many examples of how Daggerheart, as a system, gets out of your way.
For players accustomed to clear procedures and predictable outcomes, that I would imagine is going to be quite disorienting. Daggerheart doesn’t just present a different set of tools, it presents a different point of view about what playing an RPG means. This is a game where the story isn’t something that emerges from the gameplay; it is the gameplay. That’s not just a shift in tone or presentation. It’s a fundamental paradigm shift in what the game asks of its players and how it wants to be played. And frankly, that’s going to be a tough adjustment for some tables.
I don’t think Daggerheart is going to suddenly cause people to abandon the staple playstyle of modern Dungeons and Dragons. In fact, I’m not even sure the two games compete with each other, unless you consider that Critical Role might just use Daggerheart instead of D&D 5e to run its next campaign.
5th edition Dungeons and Dragons is a game about fighting monsters; it’s really that simple, and it’s ok to like that. One of the strangest things about the modern D&D community is its stark resistance to accepting this objective and indisputable fact.
I do think how well Daggerheart will be received and whether or not it will be embraced by the D&D community at large is going to be a lot more artificial than just playstyle preferences and rules system.
People play 5e today in large part because of influences like Critical Role, and it may be that seeing this playstyle in action, as is the case with Critical Role’s current Age of Umbra campaign, might be the thing that enacts change in RPG culture.
Only time will tell how Daggerheart will fare but I do believe it has presented itself as a direct challenge to the ideas that modern RPG culture has about what it means to play an RPG.
We hear all the time from modern role-players that story and narrative are the most important components of playing an RPG, but is that really true? Is that an honest answer about what it’s like to play D&D today for example?
Would it not be more accurate to say it’s a game about fighting monsters? After all, everything about D&D is designed to explain what happens in combat in the most intricate and detailed way; there is an entire book dedicated to the presentation of monsters, and almost every single ability of a class in D&D is exclusively for combat purposes. If you read the book, there is not much in there to suggest that this is a narrative-first game other than the book’s claim that it is. A sort of nod to the base belief modern gamers have created, but not a practical design that says “yeah, this is the game, it’s about story”.
It’s a bit like claiming guns are for protection, which I’m sure is sometimes true, but claiming a 75 MM Howitzer is just another gun is stretching that definition a bit far. That’s kind of how I see D&D, it’s a role-playing game, but it’s stretching that “we are narrative first” claim.
So what happens when the same people who for the last several years have told you that D&D is a game about story, and you should play it, suddenly introduce Daggerheart, a game that is nothing like D&D and is actually exclusively story and not much else.
A game that is designed, from the ground up, as a narrative first RPG and delivers that playstyle unapologetically with no real alternatives built into it. Does the D&D community that has always claimed to be narrative-first adopt it, or has Critical Role called their bluff?
I suspect, the makers of Daggerheart are about to find out just how full of shit the modern D&D community is. I believe the culture and tradition to claim that D&D is about the story is just that, a tradition. They are going to fold as soon as they are handed a game that says, “here is exactly what you said you liked”.
I don’t see the modern D&D community embracing Daggerheart. There is not enough tactical combat, it’s missing a need for miniatures, there is no Monster Manual, and there are insufficient mechanical levers to entertain a community of gamers that is ashamed to admit that they play a game about killing monsters and finding treasure. As an old school gamer who loves that sort of stuff, I don’t fully understand why modern gamers are embarrassed about that, but they are and it’s weird, but the result is the same.
Daggerheart is not for modern D&D players; it’s for people who cherish the narrative, live for the story, and can embrace the ideals of theatre at the table. It’s what modern D&D players think they are, it’s what they insist they are, but the reality is that the overwhelming majority simply are not.
What does this mean for Daggerheart?
Sadly, it means Daggerheart will be much like Candela Obscura, some initial excitement with a fringe community that actually appreciates this playstyle, but it’s not going to shift the mass market away from slaughtering Orcs and taking their stuff.
And that’s ok, Daggerheart in my eyes is not a massive leap forward in modern game design, quite to the contrary, it’s a system that rides on the coattails of many already amazing designers that have forged the way ahead of them. Games like Blades in the Dark, Genesys and the Cypher System, all games acknowledged in the Daggerheart core rulebook as inspirations. These games were all ahead of their time, so much so that even today, most people have no idea they exist and fewer still have actually sat down to play them. But they are games that have forged a way forward for games like Daggerheart to come into being, and for that, I can only be thankful. Making this kind of game more mainstream is good for the hobby.
Candela Obscura is weird, quirky, and very setting-specific; it’s simply wonderful, but it’s so niche that it was not likely to find anything but the most obscure fanbase. Daggerheart I think, is going to reach a much wider audience since it’s more of a generalist fantasy RPG.
I have personally been on a quest to find that perfect fantasy RPG for many years, many disappointing years, going so far as to try my hand at game design out of sheer frustration. Daggerheart, in more ways than I can count, is the system I was amateurishly trying to conceive but simply lacked the talent to do so. It brings to the forefront everything I love about the tabletop experience. It has that same ineffable quality of 1st edition Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, but brings it to the table in an articulated and streamlined fashion, the exact “thing” I was trying to achieve in my own designs.
Suffice it to say, Matt Mercer, this generation’s Gary Gygax, has done the work for us and for me personally, Daggerheart is THE definitive tool I have been thirsty for, for as long as I can remember participating in this wonderful hobby.
In a word, Daggerheart is extraordinary in every measurable way. A premature assessment, of that I’m certain, but one that I’m unlikely to regret.
