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The Big Board Gaming Weekend – 2025

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!

Gaming Articles, Role-Player Game Reviews

In Theory: The New Generation of Dungeons and Dragons

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.

Play Dungeons & Dragons with your kids.

It’s good for them.

It’s good for you.

It’s good for the soul.

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In Theory: Daggerheart – Game Changer?

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.

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Gaming Theory: Yes, I’m A Bit Of A Hipster – Here Is My Hipster List

In the last year, I realized something about my gaming habits and preferences that perhaps I should have, but never did notice. I seem to be a bit of a gaming hipster!? I think…

When I think about the sorts of games I like, regardless of category or genre, I find my tastes are a bit unusual compared to pretty much anyone I know around me. In fact, it’s kind of a problem because I very rarely get to actually play the games I would play if it were exclusively just up to me. Part of this I think, has to do with my age, I have been playing games for nearly 4 decades at this point, at least 2-3 decades more than most of my peers, which might explain my tastes to some degree; nostalgia and all that.

Regardless, in the spirit of Hipsterism, I thought I would talk about my preferences a bit, which, by default, has produced a kind of Hipster list!

What I will do is choose a genre of gaming, and for each genre, I will assume that I have a gaming group raring to play this weekend. Which game would I choose!?

Role-Playing Game

I’m going to split Role-Playing into three sub-genres because I do see RPG’s as something of a quirk of mine and picking just one game just won’t do.

Fantasy – 1st Edition AD&D
The classics in their original form can still be enjoyed thanks to the Wizards of the Coast reprints.

Here’s the thing: I love fantasy RPG’s—truly. I could spend hours agonizing over a top 10 list, shuffling titles around, and second-guessing myself. But one thing is certain: Classic 1st edition Advanced Dungeons & Dragons is one of the most robust and compelling RPG traditions ever created for fantasy storytelling. Hands down.

Note, I did not call 1st edition AD&D a game, because to me, it’s always been more than just that, nor would I exactly escribe it as an RPG by today’s standards. AD&D is unique, a game with a very special approach and essence which did not exist before it in any game and has not been replicated in any games since. Every version of D&D that followed lost sight of this hidden essence, that magic that exists between the game as a rule set and the tradition that was born in Gygax’s definitive work. AD&D as a gaming tradition, an activity, and a collaborative storytelling tool, far exceeded the presumed simplicity of being a rule system and a game. I don’t know that Gygax intended for this to be true about his game, quite to the contrary, I think he was trying to create just that, a definitive rule set with AD&D, but like any art form, happy accidents happen. That happy little accident would never again be repeated, and every edition of the game has tried but failed to recapture the magic of the original.

Mind you, this is not for the lack of trying; in fact, I think most editions of the game have tried very hard to mirror the magic of AD&D, but the truth is that most designers even today can’t fully explain why this original version is different. I don’t think I could fully explain it either; it just is. An intangible quality exists in AD&D that is simply ineffable. As ineffable as it may be, I feel obligated to at least try to explain it, but I say this here and now, this is NOT about nostalgia.

Why do I gravitate toward this strange and inexplicable classic? Because I’ve always believed (as did Gygax) and still do that the most powerful, memorable role-playing happens when players don’t know the rules inside and out of how it’s done behind the screen. In the case of AD&D, it’s mostly because the rules are unknowable, thanks to the cryptic way in which they are described in what I consider the most important book in the RPG hobby ever written, the 1st edition AD&D Dungeon Master’s Guide.

The 1st edition Dungeon Masters Guide is one of the most unique books ever written. It doesn’t just guide you through the process of creating worlds for players to live in, but it teaches you how to present that world in a way that will inspire players to believe in it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a critique of AD&D. Every player, given the chance, will lean into what they know; it’s only natural that when you know the rules of a game, you start using those rules to your advantage as a game. True magic happens when players don’t know how the game works. The less they know, the more they have to trust their natural instincts at the table. Not knowing the rules activates your imagination, and players start acting like people living in a story rather than characters moving through a system. They make choices that feel right, because they don’t have the option to make sure their choices are mechanically sound. This is the magic of AD&D, it refuses you the foundation of rules upon which to make decisions, leaving you to your collaborative imaginations. Some (in fact, most) would argue this is bad game design, but I would argue that it’s perfect game design. It makes the act of role-playing the only avenue for all participants. There is no game here upon which to hang your hat.

And that’s where the magic happens.

Especially in fantasy, where gods walk the earth, monsters lurk in the dark, and magic bends the very fabric of reality. Not knowing how everything works is a feature, not a bug. It creates a sense of wonder, of discovery, of trying things to see what they do. Players aren’t just learning about the world, they’re learning how its very physics of the world operates.

There were many versions of Dungeons and Dragons, both official and unofficial, but every book that followed 1st edition AD&D strived to be a rulebook first, presenting the game as a mechanical architecture for creating a game at the table that everyone, especially players, could understand. Only 1st edition AD&D saw itself as a creative toolkit for collaborative storytelling, targeting the DM as its master.

For me, 1st Edition AD&D will always be my first love and for that it can be easy to write it off as nostalgia and often with old school games this is the case with me, but not so with AD&D. If I had the chance, I’d run a classic game exactly as I believe it was always meant to be played: with a little mystery, a lot of imagination, and just enough chaos to keep everyone guessing.

Science-Fiction – Alternity

I was this close to picking The Aliens RPG by Free League Games. It’s a fantastic system for intense, edge-of-your-seat one-shots. But let’s be honest: once the xenomorphs are out in the open, the mystery that is the Alien movies vanishes, and with it, a lot of the drama. It’s hard to stretch that tension into a long-term campaign without it wearing thin, despite the fantastic game design that went into the Aliens RPG. I love it, but a good foundation for a long term RPG campaign – it’s not. It is a one-shot, nothing more, nothing less.

If Gygax is the pioneer of fantasy RPG’s, there is no question that Bill Slaviscek and Richard Baker were the pioneers of science-fiction RPG’s. Alternity is a master class in how science fiction should be approached as a storytelling game.

So in the end, it came down to a real heavyweight match: Star Wars RPG by West End Games versus Alternity by TSR/Wizards of the Coast. And while both hold their own with style and substance, I give the edge to Alternity for one reason only: The Stardrive campaign setting.

The setting designed by Richard Baker, one of the sharpest minds in the business, pushed Alternity over the top for me. It’s original, ambitious, and packed with the kind of rich lore that inspires long-term storytelling.

The Stardrive campaign setting is an epic tale of humanity’s rise to the stars, and despite being written in the late 90’s, the history of this setting rings more true today than it did back then. It’s a fascinating read, almost as if it’s a prediction.

But Alternity as a system is more than just a great way to bring a setting to life. It’s the unsung pioneer of the d20 era. Before 3rd Edition D&D made the mechanic mainstream, Alternity was already out there, blending class-based progression with skill-based freedom in a way that felt sleek and forward-thinking. It wasn’t just a set of rules, it was a toolkit for building any kind of science fiction world you could dream up. It’s the tragedy of the 21st century that Wizards of the Coast would take the d20 system invented with such perfection and completely botch it over the course of 3rd, 4th, and 5th edition D&D. They had the perfect model for a perfect system and decided to foolishly ignore it, but I digress.

Need spacefaring starships, cybernetic upgrades, rogue AIs, mutant powers, alien civilizations..the list goes on and on! It’s all there. Not just as a flavor, but with clean, well-designed mechanics that make it all sing at the table. There is no science-fiction setting that has ever been or ever will be created that you can’t replicate with perfection with the Alternity RPG.

I still believe that West End Games take on Star Wars is the best version of a Star Wars RPG to date. In effect, it makes Star Wars feel more hard science fiction, unlike the movies that pushed the setting into science fantasy.

Alternity gave us a framework where science fiction didn’t just feel possible, it felt limitless. That’s why, for me, it’s the gold standard for sci-fi roleplaying.

If I was going to run a science-fiction game today, there is no question it would be Alternity. The only exception I would make is for Star Wars, in that case, it would be the West End version of the game.

Other – Mage The Ascension

Over the past thirty years, I’ve run World of Darkness chronicles more times than I can count, and every single one stands out in my memory. There’s something about this universe that sticks with you. It comes in many shades: vampires brooding in neon-lit alleys, werewolves howling at the edge of the apocalypse, and wraiths lost in their own sorrow. But the default flavor has always been Vampire: The Masquerade.

And don’t get me wrong, Vampire deserves its fame. It’s probably the most iconic and approachable entry in the World of Darkness line, and for good reason. But if you came to me right now and said, “Run a World of Darkness game,” I know exactly what I’d pick: Mage: The Ascension.

Like Vampire, Mage puts players in the shoes of powerful supernatural beings. But where Vampire centers on politics, survival, and control over the mortal underworld, something players can more easily connect with, Mage reaches for something far more abstract and far more profound.

One of the big burdens of Mage The Ascension is that it’s focused on a wide range of unique takes on belief systems. It’s one of those RPG’s where everyone needs to read it cover to cover to really understand it, it’s difficult to present it as a GM. White Wolf games require a lot of self-reading because so much of the games storytelling is buried in the details of the setting and aesthetic backdrops, but nowhere is this more true than Mage.

In Mage, your faction isn’t just a club or a bloodline, it’s a belief system. A worldview. And the war isn’t over turf or influence, it’s over control of reality itself.

The Technocracy reigns in the modern age, shaping the world through science, reason, and the rigid laws of physics. But the twist is that, this version of reality is just another kind of magic, one that’s been accepted by consensus. Other mages, the ones who Awaken to alternate truths (the players), fight back not with bullets or blades but with paradigm-shattering ideas. The conflict is philosophical, spiritual, and metaphysical; the journey I can only describe as a mind-bending acid trip.

When you run Mage, you’re telling a story about characters who don’t just cast magic, they reshape the fabric of existence. And the more they push, the more the world pushes back. It’s a game where players don’t just feel powerful, they begin to believe in the power of belief itself.

To this day, I’ve never had the chance to run a full Mage chronicle—and I’ve been itching to do so for years. I love this setting. I ache for the chance to guide a group through its mysteries. If the opportunity ever came up? Let’s just say I’d be all in.

Boardgames

When it comes to board games, the number of categories is ridiculous, and I could make a solid argument for any of them. If, however, you forced me to pick three, forsaking all others, I think this would be the list.

Lifestyle Games – Twilight Imperium
Without question, the single best boardgame ever designed…period.

If I could conjure up a dedicated group of Twilight Imperium fans with the snap of my fingers, I’d be running a weekly game in a heartbeat, and I doubt I’d ever get tired of it. I know because I once had that, and it was and still is to this day, the best boardgaming experience I have ever had. It’s an irreplaceable memory that I will always chase because, in my view, Twilight Imperium is a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

Twilight Imperium isn’t just a board game. It’s a commitment, a journey, and for those willing to invest the time, it becomes something greater: a lifestyle. This is a game with layers on top of layers. What looks at first like a complex 4X space opera transforms into an ever-evolving, deeply human drama of ambition, alliances, betrayals, and vision.

Yes, it’s long. But that time investment isn’t a drawback it’s what allows the story to breathe. The game unfolds like an epic saga, each session an emergent narrative shaped by the choices, fears, and aspirations of the players around the table. It’s a game that brings out raw human drama, both imagined and real at the table. I have seen how passionate players can get about this game and I thirst for those experiences.

On the surface, Twilight Imperium is a combination of a civilization builder and war game, filled with rich lore, factions with asymmetric powers, and galactic conquest. But dig deeper, and you’ll find a game of psychology, political maneuvering, negotiation, and strategic bluffing. As I like to call it, the real game behind the mechanical one. Every move is loaded with meaning. Every word spoken a ploy. Every silence held can shift the balance of power.

You don’t just play Twilight Imperium, you live it for the duration of the game. You embody your faction’s ethos. You forge uneasy alliances, backstab former friends, and navigate the ever-turbulent currents of the Galactic Council. You calculate every vote, every trade, every fleet deployment with a mix of tactical precision and raw gut instinct.

With two dozen unique factions, dynamic objectives, modular galaxy maps, and endless human variables, Twilight Imperium offers infinite replayability. It’s a true modern masterpiece, an epic that’s far too often overlooked because of its scale and length. But for those who make the leap, the rewards are unmatched.

This used to be a game I played all the time and I can’t think of any gaming experience I miss more, it’s right up there with 1st edition AD&D and Battletech!

Tactical Games – Battletech
Its a cross between boardgaming, miniature gaming and role-playing.

Some might call BattleTech a miniatures game and sure, technically it is. But to me? It’s always been a dice-chucker board game disguised as a tactical miniature game, dressed up in pewter and plastic, pretending to be part of the miniatures crowd while doing its own brilliant thing as a role-playing game. It’s a strange mixture but it works.

BattleTech is incredible for three big reasons.

First, the lore. It’s a sprawling, obsessively detailed tapestry of interstellar warfare, dynasties, betrayals, and battle mechs the size of small buildings. You can trace the fictional design history of a single ‘Mech model, who built it, where it was deployed, how it evolved with more depth and nuance than many real-world war machines. We’re talking more lore than Warhammer 40k, and I don’t say that lightly. If you’re a story-driven gamer like me, this universe is an absolute goldmine of narrative potential. It’s a robust setting that rivals most role-playing games.

Second, the game itself. The core mechanics of BattleTech have remained remarkably intact for over 40 years. In a world where games are constantly rebooted, patched, streamlined, or gutted for new editions and marketing cycles, BattleTech is a white elephant. Buy a rulebook or a miniature in the ‘80s, and your game is still valid today. Still playable. Still awesome. That kind of long-term commitment to players and collectors is practically unheard of in the tabletop world. And here’s the kicker: as of 2025, BattleTech is the third-highest-grossing miniatures game in the world. Proof positive that you don’t need to screw over your fanbase with constant reinvention for a cash grab to make a living in the industry.

But honestly, those first two reasons are just icing on the cake. The real reason you should play BattleTech is this:

It’s a glorious, chaotic, beer-and-pretzels dice chucking tactical slugfest. A crunchy, customizable, story-driven war game where everything that can go wrong probably will — and that’s the fun of it. Yes, there’s tactical play, but this isn’t chess. This is a cinematic, slow-motion trainwreck of overheating engines, ammo explosions, critical hits, and desperate Hail Mary maneuvers. It’s a game where you feel the damage, as your mech gets carved apart limb by limb in a ballet of ballistic fire and reactor meltdowns.

Only one other game I’ve played, Warmachine, gets anywhere near the same granular feel of mechanized combat. Unfortunately, like most miniature games, the constant rule changes, reboots, and updates completely ruined Warmachine. Battletech has stayed the course and remains all about managing your loadout, balancing your heat, and watching as your prized war machine limps across the battlefield, missing an arm and trailing smoke. That’s peak drama. That’s BattleTech.

I love this game. Always have. It’s one of the few on my shelf where pieces I bought in the ‘80s can legitimately still hit the table, no updates needed, no strings attached.

Sadly, like many of my hipster gaming passions, BattleTech isn’t exactly mainstream in my circles. I rarely get to play these days. But if someone asked me to drop everything for a match?

Hell yes. I’d be there in a heartbeat.

Event Games – Western Empire (Advanced Civilization)
The original Avalon Hill version of this game was quite ugly, like many games back then, they lived in your imagination which was kind of the point of table top gaming in general.

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you already know War Room is one of my favorite event games. It doesn’t make the hipster list, though, mostly because I actually get to play it and I believe it to be a well-designed modern game, there is nothing hipster about it. My friends are kind enough to indulge me once a year (usually around my birthday), and while it’s big, bold, and unique, at the end of the day, it’s still an Axis & Allies descendant.

Now Western Empires, or as I still instinctively call it, Advanced Civilization, is hipster gaming royalty.

Shut up and sit down, I think did the best and most honest review of this game I have ever seen, flaws and all, but they their is one observation that they sort of failed to make which is that what they saw as flaws in the game from a gamers perspective are very intentionally designed features. It’s sort of like accusing Star Wars of having too many lightsabers.

I’ve talked about this game plenty before, and for good reason. It’s a sprawling, epic beast of a board game. Designed for a minimum of five players, though let’s be honest, it really wants nine (yeah you heard that right). Clocking in at a cool 12 to 15 hours, it’s less a game and more a full-day historical event. It is, without exaggeration, one of the hardest games to actually get to the table.

To put it in perspective, I haven’t played a live game of Advanced Civilization in over 20 years. Two decades. And yet, I’ve always kept a copy on my shelf. Just in case. Always hopeful that one day this one will get its moment in the sun.

At its core, Western Empires is a game of historical empire-building and economic maneuvering. There’s trading. There’s a touch of area control. Sometimes, it even pretends to be a war game. But really, it’s about managing the wild, unpredictable chaos of history. You stretch your reach, you push your luck, and you try to outmaneuver your rivals not with brute force, but with sharp wits and sharper tongues.

One of the biggest reasons this game rarely hits the table, aside from the sheer time investment and player count requirements, is that modern gamers often expect strategy games to reward clever, clean moves. Western Empires doesn’t care about your strategic brilliance. This is not a game of perfectly calculated efficiency. It’s a game of negotiation, adaptability, and psychological warfare. The best players aren’t the ones with the most optimal city placement, unit movement or strategic planning. They’re the ones who can read a room, spin a trade, and deliver a betrayal with a smile while staying the course of the inevitable and uncontrollable ups and downs of the game’s natural ebb and flow.

You don’t play the game, you play the players. That’s where the real magic is.

There’s really nothing else quite like it. The closest modern comparison might be Small World, and that’s a real stretch for a comparison, as it matches only some of the subtle nuances of mechanics. Western Empires occupies a weird, wonderful niche all on its own.

And that’s why it’s here, on the hipster list. I know full well this kind of game isn’t for everyone. Hell, it’s barely for anyone. Finding eight other souls who are all willing to commit an entire day to a relic of the 80s is an impossible task in most gaming circles. But if I ever found the right group, you better believe I’d make this a yearly tradition, right up there with War Room.

Quirky, chaotic, and criminally underplayed. That’s what the hipster list is all about.

Euro Games –

Miniature Games

When it comes to miniature games I would argue there are also quite a few different ways these games can be categorized, but I think a simple way to do it would be to split it between casual games and competitive games. It’s a broad, but it’s easy to distinguish way to do it. I would only add one third category, which I would call semi-miniature games, in which I would place miniature games that don’t have a miniature painting hobby component at all.

Casual – Warhammer 40k
40k is an all-encompassing hobby, stretching far beyond simply playing the game, and that is kind of the point of it. It’s a bit like loving Star Wars.

Ironically, in 2025, playing the most popular miniature game in the world might be the most hipster thing you can do.

Why? Because the moment Warhammer 40k comes up in conversation, it’s almost guaranteed someone will start rattling off a list of games that are “better in every way” and listing all the things that are wrong with 40k. And they’re not wrong, there are more balanced, more strategic, more thoughtfully designed games out there, lots of them. But sticking with something you know could be objectively replaced by a dozen superior alternatives? That’s peak hipster energy!

But let’s talk about the most fascinating part of the 40k experience: the community.

Across the globe, the Warhammer 40k community treats the game like a competitive titan, and to be fair, it is the largest and most active competitive tournament scene in all of tabletop gaming, by a long shot. The sheer scale of organized play is staggering.

And yet… Games Workshop, the company behind 40k, doesn’t seem to agree. At all.

To GW, Warhammer 40k is primarily a miniature line, secondarily a source of lore and novels, and somewhere far down the list, it’s technically a game. Their support for competitive play feels more like a reluctant nod to what the community chooses to do with their game, than a purposeful commitment or intent for it. The rules are often unbalanced, the game systems are regularly reworked or mismanaged, and it’s clear that game design is not what drives the brand. What we have here is a competitive community built on a system that was never meant to bear the weight of serious play. And somehow… it thrives on that very thing.

In a word, I would argue that Warhammer 40k is not a great competitive game, and when people trash-talk it, that’s really what they are talking about. But it’s a fantastic hobby and a super fun, casual experience, aka, exactly what it’s designed to be.

It’s a beer-and-pretzels dice-chucker in a gothic sci-fi shell, where the real joy comes from painting your army, crafting your own narrative, and then putting it all on the table to roll some dice and blow stuff up. The rules are often clunky, the strategy is there only to a point, but largely buried under layers of “smoke and mirrors.” Winning isn’t about mastering a perfect system, it usually comes down to how well you roll the dice.

And despite all that? I love it.

The mission system is genuinely dynamic, with flavorful objectives and varied scenarios that keep the game feeling fresh. The list-building is wide open, full of creative options and wild combos. But at its core, this is a casual game through and through, one that thrives on the atmosphere around the table and the lore on which it’s based, not in the pursuit of perfection of its gameplay.

Warhammer 40k is about collecting and painting miniatures, swapping war stories, and diving into the endless supply of pulpy, over-the-top lore of a universe where everything is grim, dark, and somehow still gloriously silly.

It’s a hobby. A vibe. A lifestyle, even. Flaws and all, I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

Competative – Songs of Ice and Fire
I would argue that Songs of Ice and Fire the miniature game is the only rank and file miniature game ever made that actually works well as a game rather than a terrible history lesson about how boring war on the battlefield actually is.

I’ll be the first to admit: I don’t play A Song of Ice & Fire much these days. It’s had a rough road, marred by some truly questionable management decisions over the years and plagued with availability problems. But even with all that baggage, I still consider it one of the most compelling competitive miniature games out there.

This is very much a game that lives in the “I wish” category. I wish it had been better supported, wish it had stuck the landing in balance and they did it all much faster, and wish it still had a place at my table. There’s a part of me that’s still hopeful it’ll stabilize and find its footing again, maybe even make a comeback in my group.

I went in deep on this one. Despite its flaws, I found A Song of Ice & Fire to be one of the most engaging strategy games to hit the miniature scene since Star Wars: Armada. At its core is a genuinely smart design, layered list-building, unique unit interactions, and some fascinating sub-war game mechanics like the NCU board and tactical card play. When it clicked, it really clicked.

Except when it didn’t.

To be fair, most of the problems I ran into weren’t with the design itself — they were with the balance. And yes, you could argue that design and balance go hand in hand (and you wouldn’t be wrong), but I still think there’s a meaningful distinction. A game can be brilliantly designed but hampered by poor balancing decisions, one can be fine-tuned, the other is just a flaw. That’s A Song of Ice & Fire in a nutshell: great foundation, uneven execution.

Now, I haven’t kept up with the latest updates, so maybe things are better these days. But in my local scene, the damage was done, people moved on, and getting a game back into circulation after a group loses faith in it is no small feat.

And then, there’s the personal hurdle: painting.

This one’s tough for me. Being a mass army game, ASOIAF demands batch painting. Lots of similar models, unit after unit, rank after rank. And repetitive painting is my kryptonite. I just can’t stay motivated painting the same miniature ten times in a row. It sucks the joy out of the hobby for me, and ASOIAF is particularly brutal in that regard with no list building avoidance some games offer.

All that said? I still think this is a fantastic game. It deserves recognition. It’s competitive, it’s clever, and when it’s running smoothly, it offers a rich tactical experience that not many miniature games can match. That’s why it earns a spot on the hipster list, a flawed gem that still shines when the light hits just right.

That said… its time may be running out. Modern miniature design is evolving fast, and with games like Warcrow on the horizon, strong contenders are lining up to take this slot permanently.

The Most Fun – Star Wars: X-Wing
In my mind, Star Wars X-Wing is still one of the best miniature games ever made. PERIOD.

When talking about the miniature game hobby, there’s always one title that sparks debate, some say it barely qualifies as a miniatures game at all. I’m talking about X-Wing. And frankly, I don’t buy the skepticism. Slap those sleek ships onto a sprue and suddenly there’d be no doubt where it belongs.

Yes, it’s pre-painted. Yes, it’s more accessible than most. But that doesn’t disqualify it, it redefines the space. X-Wing was designed to walk the tightrope between a serious competitive game and a relaxed casual experience, and it succeeded. Brilliantly. This game brought three key advantages to the table that most miniature games either ignore or fail to execute well. And those three factors are why X-Wing stood tall in the market for years, even managing to shake Games Workshop out of its golden-era complacency.

First, the pacing. X-Wing matches are quick, typically 45 minutes. That’s practically warp speed in miniature gaming terms. It made the game ideal for tournaments and casual nights. You could run multiple matches in an evening, try out a bunch of new lists, and still have time to argue about who really shot first. There’s no hour-long rules refresh or setup slog—just “Hey, want to play?” and you’re in. That kind of approachability is rare in the hobby.

Second, it’s Star Wars. That’s not just thematic dressing—it’s a gateway. The brand brings in people who’ve never even looked twice at a miniature game. You don’t have to explain the appeal of piloting an X-Wing. You show someone the TIE Fighters screaming across the table, and they’re already halfway sold. I’ve never seen a non-gamer pick up Warhammer 40K on a whim. But X-Wing? That’s the one that brings in the curious, the casual, the movie fans, the dads and uncles and kids who just want to fly the Falcon.

Third, and maybe most importantly, X-Wing made high-level tactical play accessible. The rules were simple on the surface, but the depth was staggering. Movement planning, arc dodging, list synergies, action economy, there was real meat on those bones. You didn’t have to learn 200 pages of codex lore to be competitive. But if you wanted to go deep, the game rewarded you. It hit that perfect balance: easy to learn, hard to master.

X-Wing wasn’t just another miniatures game. It was a lightning-in-a-bottle moment in the hobby. It opened the door to a new audience, streamlined what was possible in design, and reminded the rest of the industry that a game could be both fast and deep, fun and tactical, cinematic and competitive.

Whether you play it today or remember it from its heyday, X-Wing deserves its place in the conversation, not just as a miniature game, but as one of the best games to ever grace a tabletop. In my personal opinion, its the single best miniature game that we have gotten in the 4 decades of I’ve been around.

Best Design – Star Wars Armada

When first announced, everyone thought that this would be X-Wing but with capital ships. It certainly looks the part, but Star Wars Armada is an entirely different and far heavier game that demanded a lot more from its audiance.

One final entry I’d like to sneak onto the hipster list—and I say this with as much objectivity as a subjective opinion can carry—is my pick for the best-designed miniature game out there.

To take this crown, a game has to meet a singular, uncompromising criterion: skill must reign supreme. Like chess, where grandmasters fall only to their peers, this kind of game leaves no room for chance to decide the victor. It must be a pure contest of mastery, where the dice are just accessories, not arbiters of fate. And in the world of miniatures, that game is Star Wars: Armada.

Sure, there are dice. But make no mistake, those little cubes only matter when two evenly matched minds clash. In Armada, outcomes are forged not by luck, but by foresight, precision, and relentless practice. It’s a game that rewards not just play, but study. The kind of study that turns casual fans into hardened tacticians.

But here’s where it gets really compelling: Armada doesn’t just test you on the battlefield. It demands mastery before the first ship even hits the table. The list-building is deep, nuanced, and packed with options that will make your head spin if you’re not ready for it. Understanding the shifting meta, anticipating counter-play, these are not fringe skills, they’re the bedrock of victory. The game is highly deterministic, which means your preparation matters as much, if not more, than your moment-to-moment decision-making at the table.

That it’s set in the Star Wars universe, with massive capital ships slugging it out in glorious slow-motion ballet? That’s just the sweet, sweet icing on a very dense, very intimidating cake. But fair warning: Armada is not a casual fling. It’s a demanding, often unforgiving beast that can feel downright brutal if you approach it half-heartedly. You don’t play Armada, you train for it, like a chess grandmaster gearing up for the championship board.

Gaming Articles, On The Table

Warcrow: Gameplay Review

After a month of being neck-deep in all things Warcrow, from the lore to the miniatures and everything in between, it’s finally time to bring it all together and deliver the final verdict. I knew from the get-go that reviewing a full miniature game would be a monumental undertaking, and it turns out… I was absolutely right. But here we are, finally at the end in the final article, and if you have been following along with Warcrow March Madness, I hope you found it informative and useful. I’m genuinely satisfied with the result.

To recap, we’ve already published two dedicated reviews among a series of other articles: one diving into the rich and immersive Warcrow lore, and another focused entirely on the miniatures—both crucial aspects of any tabletop wargame. But let’s be honest: when most people think “miniature game review,” what they really want to know is, “How does it actually play?”

That’s exactly what we’re going to cover today. The gameplay, the mechanics, the experience at the table- this is where Warcrow truly proves itself.

So, settle in. This one’s going to be a bit of a deep dive with a few side tracks.

Overview

Warcrow, at its core, is a tactical skirmish wargame that represents the next generation of miniature gaming design. It stands out for its commitment to streamlined mechanics, unambiguous rules, and a clear focus on balance, hallmarks of a system designed for both competitive integrity and ease of play.

Warcrow excels as a game that zooms in on the battlefield, focusing on the unique individuals that make up your units. Each warrior, mage, hero, and villain is defined by unique abilities and roles that contribute to a broad range of tactical options and unique dynamic gameplay. These elements interact in a cohesive system that rewards strategic planning and synergy without being bogged down by excessive complexity or overburdening you with complex list building.

One of the game’s most notable strengths is the clarity and structure of its mechanics. There are virtually no exception-based rules or ambiguous interactions. What’s outlined in the core rulebook is exactly how the game plays, providing a reliable and consistent experience from one match to the next. There is no “eye-balling it” in this game.

As mentioned in the lore review, there is a strong narrative integration between the game’s setting and the mechanics. The spells, weapons, and abilities, and characters used in gameplay reflect the world’s rich high fantasy background, resulting in a game that feels both tactical and cinematic. Every action on the table contributes to the story being told, as well as the action being resolved.

The design space itself is impressively robust. Even at this early stage, it’s clear that Corvus Belli has created a flexible foundation capable of supporting a wide range of future content. As additional factions are released, the depth and complexity of the game will continue to expand. We are only beginning to see what the full scope of the system can deliver.

Even with the current roster of factions, Warcrow offers compelling choices. It is intellectually engaging, well-balanced, and rich in tactical decision-making.

In short, Warcrow delivers a refined and thoughtful gameplay experience, built on a foundation that supports competitive play, narrative immersion, and long-term growth. It is already a standout in the miniature skirmish genre, in my view, with much more still to come.

There are three questions I aim to answer in this review, three important and relevant questions I think any miniature war game fan would ask.

First and foremost, how does it compare to games we are already playing? For many, if not most, Warcrow won’t be your first rodeo and you are no doubt already spending gobs of money elsewhere and want to know how this game compares to the games you already love and play. Taking on a new miniature game is always a bad financial decision; everyone knows this. For many, doing so means giving something else up so I understand the relevance of this all-important question.

The second is, who is this game for? Who is the audience this game targets, and how does it do so? Miniature war games have many sub-genres and playstyles, so identifying where Warcrow lands is critical as we all have our own personal tastes, and this is often not reflected in the quality of a game but rather based on the design. This means a game can be great but not a good fit for you , nonetheless. Proper categorization is important.

The natural assumption when making comparisons to Warcrow is to choose the most popular fantasy miniature game out there, which might be Age of Sigmar, but just because a game is fantasy doesn’t mean we are comparing apples to apples. Genres, plastyles, and design intention are far more important than themes.

Finally, I will talk about my personal tilt, answering the questions for myself. As a miniature game fan with a dozen games on my shelf and an ungodly amount of money already spent on miniature games, I think my personal take counts for something. I believe firmly that gamers love to hear from other gamers, their unfiltered opinions and you will definitly get that before this review is done.

The Depth Of Interaction

If there’s one thing that truly stands out in Warcrow’s design, it’s how incredibly dynamic the game’s interactions are. Especially when it comes to the diverse unit abilities and their impact on the battlefield.

Each unit is crafted with purpose, clearly defined, and easy to grasp, making it intuitive to deploy them in the heat of combat. But as you dive deeper into how these abilities play out across various matchups, it becomes clear that there’s more beneath the surface. While every unit has a core design intent, their versatility shines differently depending on your opponent. Many units boast multiple abilities, some of which might seem underwhelming against certain armies or army lists, yet prove devastating against others. Even something as simple as a unit’s speed or attack type can suddenly become a critical advantage or a glaring weakness, all based on who you’re facing. This built-in layered dynamic means you don’t just think “this unit is good at X,” but rather evaluate its value based on the unique conditions of each battle. No two encounters feel the same as a result, even when using the same army list.

It’s a subtle but brilliant piece of game design that doesn’t reveal itself right away. You need to play through several matchups with the same list to fully appreciate it, but once you do, it becomes impossible to ignore.

The card profiles can seem complex at first and arguably are complex, but the game is intuitive, turning this complexity into a worthwhile architecture to learn. You get used to it, and once you do, you will appreciate the genius of it.

To me, all great miniature games have this design effect, and when it’s absent, it’s very noticeable. I’m reminded of games like Star Wars Armada and Star Wars X-Wing, which also had this great dynamic effect where any single unit could be used in a dozen different roles depending on the sort of upgrades you put on it. The nice thing with Warcrow is that you don’t have to fuss with the extra complexity of matching upgrades with a unit to get this effect; it’s sort of built-in.

Warcrow reminds me a great deal of the reasons why I love Star Wars: X Wing. Each unit had value in a wide range of lists with lots of different uses, creating this exploration effect where you would try out different approaches. Finding a unique way to use a unit and surprise your opponent with a new, unexpected tactic is an extremely gratifying experience.

This makes the entire list-building process a whole lot simpler, yet this depth of interaction is left uncompromised. I think it’s my favorite part of Warcrow because I think, no matter who you are, you are going to appreciate this aspect of Warcrow. It’s a universal benefit and a product of great game design.

Pacing, Activation, and Initiative

If there’s one common flaw across most miniature games, it’s that they almost all, without exception, suffer from pacing issues, usually tied directly to how activation and initiative are handled.

Take Warhammer 40k, for instance, where players take alternate turns, executing every action for their entire army before the opponent gets a chance to respond. This often results in entire units being wiped off the board before they can even act.

Or look at Star Wars: Armada, where having more ships grants you more activations—a significant advantage that lets you stall and outmaneuver your opponent simply by doing more, later.

The initiative wheel is a bonus here because not only is it great for tracking effects, initiative, and turn order, but it plays into the design by allowing the game to have timed effects, which is something that I suspect will be liberally used in the future as more narrative scenarios are introduced.

I could rattle off a dozen more examples where initiative and activation create balance problems, leading to all kinds of pacing breakdowns, list building shinaningans, and other problems that bog down gameplay. Any experienced miniature wargamer knows exactly what I’m talking about here.

Warcrow, on the other hand, is one of the rare games that completely sidesteps this issue, and it does so with one elegantly simple rule: each round, both players get exactly five activations. That’s it. It doesn’t matter who has more units or who goes first, nothing messes with this flow of play.

In fact, it’s the first game I’ve played where going first or second doesn’t feel like a default advantage or disadvantage, nor how many more units you have or any other decision made during list building.

This mechanic liberates list-building since you’re not pressured by activation math or outnumbering tricks.

The result is a game with brilliant pacing, where matches move quickly, decisions feel meaningful, every activation carries weight, and none of can be broken by any means.

Power Plays & Other Big Moves

When you play a miniature game, there’s often a strange contradiction at play, we want to feel powerful, to pull off epic moves and dramatic power plays, but ironically, those moments don’t always translate into a fun or balanced experience at the table for everyone.

Take Warhammer 40k, for example. Blasting a tank off the board in one shot feels awesome. It’s cinematic, it’s impactful, and it shifts the momentum of the game instantly. But when you’re on the receiving end, watching a key unit disappear before it can do anything, that “wow” moment quickly becomes a “why bother” moment, especially when the entire outcome hinges on a single lucky die roll with no opportunity for countermeasures or reactive play.

I will say upfront and be honest that this does not bother me personally. I love big epic moments, but only where appropriate. Warhammer 40k is a war game, not a tactical miniature game. There is a difference, and we will talk more about that in a bit. There are also games like Battle of Middle-Earth Strategy game and Battletech, for example, that I also would consider exceptions to this rule, each for their own reasons. I know, however, that for many players out there, this can be a real deal breaker, and I get that.

Needless to say, a good game should make everyone at the table feel engaged, regardless of whether they’re winning or losing. It’s frustrating to have your match derailed by one overblown dice spike, especially if it removes any hope of a fair comeback.

Thankfully, Warcrow avoids this pitfall almost entirely. I won’t go so far as to say it never happens; this is still a dice game, after all, but overwhelmingly, matches tend to be far more stable and tactically driven, with few exploding situations.

I’d describe Warcrow as a game of attrition, where true breakthrough moments usually don’t occur until the final rounds. It’s rare that a single attack completely changes the game’s outcome. That’s because most units come equipped with tools, abilities, defenses and status effects that help mitigate or respond to threats. You are rarely left with no options for a reaction. The biggest factor here is the all-important stress resource.

Stress is a controllable resource; you typically only gain stress when you choose to. Usually, as long as you have not spent all your stress, you have options; those big breakthrough moments typically only happen at the end of a match because units have reached their stress limits and can’t respond.

And that’s not to say the game lacks big moments. Quite the opposite, every activation can feel like a big moment. But instead of “I rolled all sixes, game over,” it’s more like, “I just put real pressure on you for 3 activations in a row, and now you’re in real trouble on this flank because all of your units are stressed.” It’s dynamic without being volatile.

I have to confess that I never tried this game at a lower (starter) point count. My friends and I dove straight into the full game, so I’m not sure if this “stability effect” works with lower points, it might not.

Dice still matter, of course, but the odds are tight, and poor tactical decisions are far more likely to hurt you than bad luck. In our experience so far, most games are decided by a margin of just 1–2 points—and many end in a draw.

The result? A game that feels consistent and fair. Important decisions happen every round, and every activation matters, but those crushing “this game is over” moments are few and far between, typically delegated to the final rounds of the game. And that’s a beautiful thing, a direct result of fantastic game design.

Rules Density, Tracking Stuff and Components

I want to say Warcrow is simple to pick up and easy to play—and to a large extent, that’s true. The core rules density is quite manageable, and the game does a solid job of organizing effects with a relatively intuitive system for how abilities interact and inform your strategic decisions.

That said, I’m not sure everyone will feel that way right out of the gate. Warcrow includes several subsystems, each with its own timing quirks and layered effects. There are a lot of tokens that represent effects for a miniature game, not to mention a wide range of unique abilities across units and factions. While it’s not hard to track your own army, you’ve got the cards, the tokens, resources, and everything laid out in front of you, it’s a very different story when it comes to parsing on the fly what’s happening on your opponent’s side of the table.

This becomes even more obvious as you face a wider variety of factions and lists. In my games, I often found that when an opponent explained all the things their units could do, it barely registered into my strategy. There was just too much to take in. A constant stream of, “Oh, this guy can also do this,” and, “Don’t forget, he has this keyword that modifies that ability which affects this other unit’s timing,” can start to blur together. It’s already a challenge to internalize your own army’s suite of tools, and keeping track of your opponent’s full kit in real time can feel overwhelming.

Of course, that’s not unusual. In fact, it’s fairly standard for deep miniature games. Over time, you’ll naturally build familiarity by facing the same factions and units repeatedly. But Warcrow has so many dynamic interactions and layered mechanics that gaining true mastery will take a serious amount of play—and probably a good amount of study.

If Infinity, Corvus Belli’s other miniature game, is any indication of what is coming for Warcrow, we are going to see a lot of releases. The environment is going to get more and more complex with each release. I don’t think it’s fair to suggest that Warcrow is unfriendly to new players; that is not the case, but I think it is fair to say that Warcrow is a deep and complex game that targets players who love depth and complexity.

In a word, it’s easy to get started, simple enough of a game to learn, but it’s a deep and complex game under the surface, packed with unique abilities and intricate interplay. It’s clearly designed with the experienced miniatures gamer in mind. This isn’t a lightweight skirmish game, it’s built for seasoned players who enjoy absorbing the nuances of faction identity and unit synergy.

That’s not good or bad, it just is. It speaks more to the target audience. Much like Corvus Belli’s other title, Infinity, this game goes deep and rewards those willing to dive in with both feet. Casual gamers need not apply, this one is aimed squarely at the veteran gamers.

Comparing The Experianace

It’s only natural for players to ask the big question: how does this compare to X or Y game? A full breakdown could fill an entire article, but I can offer one piece of high-level guidance.

At its core, Warcrow is best understood as a tactical miniature game, not a war-scale miniatures game. That distinction matters. Many popular games, like Warhammer 40k, aim to simulate massive battles with sweeping movements and grand strategies. These games are about positioning large forces, making broad-stroke plays, and hoping your overall game plan holds together against the onslaught of buckets of dice that will be rolled over the course of a match.

In war-scale games, you attempt things with limited control and discover what happens. In tactical games like Warcrow, you plan things and execute decisions with a clearer understanding of likely outcomes. There are surprises sure, but things are considerably more controlled.

Perhaps a better comparison to Warcrow might be a game like Warhammer 40k: Kill Team. This, too is a skirmish tactical game, and while I would still argue they are quite different in their approach, the scale and size of the battle is part of what makes the difference between a miniature war game and a tactical miniature game.

Tactical games emphasize action-reaction mechanics, tighter resource economies, and fewer decisions—but each decision carries more weight. In Warcrow, with just 15 total activations per game, every move matters.

It’s a bit like the difference between playing Chess and playing RISK. Chess is tactical, you can anticipate counters, calculate your path, and react to threats with precision. RISK is strategic; you make plays and hope the dice and positioning go your way. There’s a reason it’s called RISK.

Again, I have to say that this is neither a positive or a negative thing, it just is, and it’s more about knowing what sort of game you prefer which takes me to the final and perhaps most important part of the review.

My Personal Tilt

I’ve been dreading this part of the review—and you’re about to understand why.

Warcrow is, without question, an excellent miniatures game. It’s razor-sharp in its design, beautifully produced, and brimming with smart mechanics. If you love tactical skirmish games, this one’s a homerun, especially if you’re drawn to competitive play. That’s my objective take, my assessment of the game with preference playing no role in it.

But subjectively? It’s not really my kind of game.

I come from the chaos-loving side of the hobby. My favorites are Battletech, Star Wars: X-Wing, and Warhammer 40k—games that thrive on wild dice rolls, hidden moves, and the kind of unpredictable madness that turns a game night into a story you’ll laugh about later. These games are messy, swingy, and not particularly balanced… and that’s exactly why I adore them.

Warcrow isn’t that. Like A Song of Ice and Fire or Star Wars: Armada, it rewards mastery, foresight, and discipline. Player skill trumps randomness. It’s elegant, structured, and built for those who want to study, refine, and win through pure tactical brilliance. In many ways, it’s an objectively better game than the ones I usually play.

But on any given Sunday ask me what I want to play and I’m far more likely to pick something like Battletech or Warhammer 40k than Warcrow.

Not because Warcrow does anything wrong, but because it asks more of you. It’s a game you can’t half-ass. You need to know your units, your synergies, your list and strategy etc.. etc.. That’s awesome if you’re ready to go deep, but less great if you’re just here to unwind with some dice and a drink.

Will I still play? Probably. If my group’s into it, I’d rather be part of the fun than sit out. And honestly, I do respect the hell out of the design. But for me, Warcrow doesn’t quite scratch the itch I’m usually looking to satisfy with minature games.

Final Verdict

Let’s keep this short and sharp, because Warcrow deserves that kind of clarity.

This is, without a doubt, one of the best-designed miniature games I’ve encountered in the past twenty years, going all the way back to the spark of the modern miniatures era with Mage Knight in 2000. It’s got the full package: a rich setting, stunning miniatures, and a rock-solid core ruleset that feels laser-focused on tactical excellence.

Mage Knight, the game that kicked off the HeroClix revolution, was the first to truly challenge the traditional mold of miniature wargames. It dared to ask, “What if we did things differently?”—and in doing so, it ignited a new era in miniature gaming.

This is a design space bursting with potential, and I firmly believe Warcrow has a bright future, especially in the competitive scene. But here’s my hope: that Corvus Belli doesn’t stop there. They’ve laid the groundwork for something bigger, and it would be a real shame not to build on the game’s narrative promise.

Look, I’ve seen this arc before. Star Wars: X-Wing began life as a tight, competitive, match-play system. But what kept me coming back were the scenarios, the cinematic moments, and the rich storytelling that emerged later. That’s what turned it from a good game into a beloved one. Warcrow is sitting at that same crossroads right now.

Yes, that’s personal preference, but objectively? This game is a triumph. Some may quibble about the plastic, but honestly, those concerns are minor and easily overshadowed by the strength of the design.

Warcrow has the mechanics where it matters most, the table, and more importantly, it has heart. Whether you’re a tournament grinder or a lore junkie looking for your next obsession, there’s something here worth watching… and worth playing.

The Verdict

Final Score: 4.5 out of 5 Stars!

Pros: Fantastic lore, miniatures and tactical gameplay. It is an example of how to produce a modern miniature game and a true stand-out in the miniature gaming market. The complete package.

Cons: While easy to learn, the game is deep and complex, making it a poor choice for casual play. Some negative quirks with plastic and lack of customization will turn off art-focused hobbyists who care less about the game and more about the tinkering.

Dedicated To All Things Gaming