During the summer, we held a competition for the best fan-made army for Neuroshima Hex, followed by an intense debate in the company in September about which army was the most interesting and deserved to be released for the 20th anniversary of Neuroshima Hex. A few weeks later, we had the top five armies left, then three, then two, until we finally selected the best one—Piotr Lubecki’s Wiremen. November was filled with intense testing, December with even more testing, and January was the same. Then, in February, the team was still deeply engaged in balancing the new army.

And to be clear, by “team,” I mean a dedicated group of Neuroshima Hex testers, many of whom are tournament winners and former Polish Champions, whom we’ve recruited into the development team over the years.

I’ve been there.

It was 2001. Portal Games had folded. I had no money. My bank accounts were frozen. Debt collectors were knocking. I was done.

I posted a short message in the Polish RPG discussion group—and then I shut myself off. All my dreams had shattered. I sat in front of the TV, numb. These were some of the grimmest weeks of my life.

I blame Martin Wallace. I blame Vital Lacerda. And yes, I’ll take some of the blame myself.

Martin designed Brass — an economic game about some old stuff like the coal industry. Vital is incredibly talented, but instead of creating a brilliant game about international trade, he made Kanban, a game about cars. And me? I designed an economic simulation of the fashion industry.

We could have saved the whole thing, but we chose coal, cars, and fashion instead. And so here we are — Trump reactivates coal mines in the US, he buys himself a new Tesla, and wears the most fashionable golf outfits the world has ever seen. I saw pics — he has the best trousers any other president ever had.

It’s all happening because of Wallace, Lacerda, and Trzewiczek.

And yes, I know you might doubt if anyone at the White House plays board games at all. You might even want to comfort me and say, “Ignacy, it’s not your fault.”

Allow me to disagree. They love to play some games. 

He for sure loves Scrabble. Did you know you can get 12 points for a good old-fashioned word like „groceries”? And he knows many words, the best words, he can even create new ones. He is great at Scrabble, he really is. 

Diplomacy taught him how to negotiate with world leaders. And I tell you this, if you are a very stable genius, you will easily win this game. You make the dumbest offers, and your friends at some point will agree — just keep repeating them over and over.  It’s called consequence, baby!

And then there is, of course, the one and only — Monopoly! A board game with only one winning strategy — screw everybody else and get rich by taking their money. His Fav Game of All Time.

Trust me, they are playing board games. Unfortunately, not the right ones.

So, I’m going to whine. Brew yourself a cup of coffee, get comfortable, and let’s begin. The life of a board game publisher is unfair. A comic book publisher, a book publisher, or even a YouTuber—they all have it easier. How they have it easier? When it comes to covers. Yes, I’m whinening about covers.

Officially, my job title is „board game publisher,” but those of you who know me well are aware that I’ve spent the last decade primarily as the head of the marketing department. In that department, everything revolved around A/B testing, analyzing reactions, and doing experiments. It was all about running three ads and seeing which performed better. About uploading a video to YouTube, then changing the thumbnail after two days to see if it improved click-through rates. About sending out newsletters with two different subject lines to see which achieved a higher open rate.

When we were kids, it was different. We just played. A child is like a cat; they don’t understand the concept of time, living in the present with the blissful belief that things will always be the same. So, we played RPGs twice a week, after school, like kids do—a never-ending campaign, without a beginning or an end, without a story arc, just playing for the sake of it.

Then you go to college, thinking you’re growing up, getting smarter, having a girlfriend, being able to drink beer. But in reality, you’re still like that cat, unaware of time, unaware that it’s all about to end—that the weekly gaming with friends, that carefree fun without a plan, without a beginning or end, will eventually have a finish line. Life comes along, with work and kids, and you truly grow up, only then understanding what time really means.

And so it happens, you’re an adult. Life pulls you into its gears. You want to play, but there’s no time. You want to play, but maybe you’ll manage to pull off a one-shot session here and there, a hastily organized gathering, only to have it fall apart after two months of planning because one person can’t make it, and another just doesn’t want to. You’re an adult now. There’s no time for a never-ending campaign, no weekly D&D sessions without a goal. There’s no more playing like a cat, like a kid, no more playing for the sake of it.