I have a bit of a weakness when it comes to board games that check three specific boxes: they’re on sale (cheap), they’re for two players (so my daughter and I can play), and they’re short (so we can actually finish them). If a game meets those criteria, it’s almost an automatic purchase. I don’t read reviews, I don’t check the designer, I just click “buy” and hope for the best.
So imagine my surprise when the game I blindly added to my cart turned out to be designed by none other than Uwe Rosenberg.
Now, if you’re a board game fan, that name probably means something to you. And if you’re like me, it might even come with baggage. My history with Rosenberg’s games is… complicated. They tend to pass through my collection like a summer storm, brief, intense, and ultimately fleeting.
It’s not that I think he’s a bad designer, far from it. He’s clearly talented, with a devoted following and a long list of critically acclaimed titles. But his games and I just don’t click. They usually fall into one of two camps for me: either they’re sprawling, overly complex point salads (Feast for Odin and Agricola, I’m looking at you), or they’re great for a few plays and then dry up completely (RIP, Le Havre).
So when I discovered that Cave vs. Cave, the game I had bought on a whim, was a Rosenberg title, my expectations dropped faster than a poorly-timed worker placement. Still, I cracked it open, gave it a shot, and, well, here we are.
Overview
Cave vs. Cave is a sort of action selection game in which players choose from a shared pool of available actions, and build their personal tableu of of tiles that offer various benefits and score you points.
The tableu is meant to be a cave that your excuvating, but as you execuvate the cave spaces become available which you can then fill with rooms. Each room offers you some benefit (as well as victory points) that allow you to build engines for scoring points, gaining resources and ultimatetly (hopefully) winning the game.
It’s a relatively straightforward game rules wise.
The Cleverness (The Pros)
What Cave vs. Cave does well, really well, is give you that classic Rosenberg-style puzzle in a bite-sized package. The core of the game revolves around the timing of actions and the availability of rooms, and how those two factors interact creates a satisfying little brainteaser. Figuring out how to best sequence your moves, when to grab a key room, or how to squeeze one more action out of a tight round, that’s where the game shines.
In typical Rosenberg fashion, a seemingly simple mechanic reveals surprising depth. Even though the game clocks in at around 30 to 45 minutes, there’s still plenty to chew on. Every decision matters, and the game doesn’t pad things with catch-up mechanics or point explosions. It’s a slow burn, a deliberate race where small efficiencies add up and the player who makes the fewest mistakes usually wins.
What I appreciate most is how dynamic it feels. The randomized room layout and action tile order keep each playthrough just different enough to force you to adapt. There’s real replay value here, and multiple viable strategies to explore. Want to focus on early gold production? Go for it. Prefer to expand aggressively and build up infrastructure? That works too. It never feels like there’s just one obvious path to victory.
In short, Cave vs. Cave is unmistakably a Rosenberg game. From the economic engine-building to the quiet solo-race format, it’s got all the hallmarks, just boiled down into a leaner, faster experience. Exactly what I think fans would enjoy and expect from a 2-player version of Caverna.
The two-player setup shows just how streamlined and straight to it the game is. I can explain the rules to you in five minutes, and we are ready to rock.
The production is of great quality, its pretty, feels good in the hand, nicely illustrated.
The Bad Stuff (The Cons)
One of my ongoing gripes with many of Uwe Rosenberg’s designs and really, with a lot of Euro-style games, is the almost complete lack of player interaction. To be clear, I don’t think this is a flaw per se; it’s a conscious design philosophy. But it’s one that just doesn’t always land for me.
Cave vs. Cave is no exception. You and your opponent might as well be playing two separate solo games with a shared component tray. The only real difference between the solo mode and the two-player mode is the win condition: in solo, you’re trying to hit 50 points; in multiplayer, you’re just trying to beat the other person’s score. That’s it. That’s the interaction.
I can think of any number of games with far more interaction and the same level of complexity that are going to get you that two-player one-hour experience. 7 Wonder Duel for example, I would argue hits that spot perfectly. Suffice to say, I think interaction is important to a game, and its absence here makes me want to reach for other games.
Sure, every now and then, you might grab an action or room tile your opponent had their eye on, but I’d argue that’s more accidental overlap than meaningful competition. You’re not going to intentionally do this to block your opponent, it’s more of that classic, “Oh, I was going to do that,” moment that’s more of a shrug than a strategic block or decision.
So if you’re looking for tension, take-that mechanics, or even just a little tactical disruption, Cave vs. Cave won’t deliver. It’s a parallel play experience through and through, which, again, might be exactly what fans of Rosenbergs probably want and expect. But for those of us who like a little friction in our games, it can feel a bit… sterile.
Conclusion
At the end of the day, my biggest gripe with Cave vs. Cave, its near-total lack of player interaction, isn’t really a flaw, just a matter of taste. And despite that, I have to admit: this game works. It’s a light, fast, and clever little two-player experience that you can set up, teach, and play in under an hour without breaking a mental sweat.
Honestly, every game shelf needs titles like this, games you can pull out on a whim when a friend drops by and says, “Hey, want to play something?” Cave vs. Cave fits that role perfectly. It doesn’t demand a full evening, it doesn’t require a deep dive into the rulebook, and it delivers a tight, thinky puzzle with just enough variety to keep things fresh.
Unlike most of Rosenberg’s heavier titles that briefly haunted my collection before being sold off, this one might actually stick around. Not because it’s a masterpiece, but because it knows exactly what it is: a quick, streamlined Rosenberg engine-builder that doesn’t overstay its welcome.
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.
