His troops enter my city. With one swift move, he cuts me off from resources and recruitment opportunities. I’m finished. For the next hour and a half, I’ll be dying of boredom trying to gather an army, but I know I’ve just lost my chance at victory.

“You could have met him head-on, sent out a patrol, and stopped his march a province earlier. He wouldn’t have gotten into your city,” says Michał.

“Is that possible? Can you stop him during his turn?” I ask, surprised.

“Well, yeah, before any enemy troop movement, you have the right to launch a counter-attack and strike the marching column.”

“I didn’t know that,” I reply, both furious and embarrassed.

Furious, because I lost this game, I gave up my capital only because I didn’t know one rule. I could have stopped him on the way to the city, then reinforced it, brought in the rest of my troops – the whole situation would have looked completely different, and I would still be in the running for victory.

Embarrassed, because whose fault is it? Well, mine. I wasn’t focused on listening to the rules, I forgot about that rule, I’m the fool who’s losing not because I made poor tactical decisions, but because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know the game rules.

***

Nothing frustrates me more in games than a situation like this. A situation where a fool like me takes away the satisfaction of victory from an opponent, where I make such a basic mistake that the victory loses its flavor. The whole game shifts from “You really played well, congratulations!” to “If I had known that rule, you wouldn’t have won.” bullshit.

And there are two more guys at the table, disappointedly watching me as I wrecked the whole game, as I let the opponent seize my capital effortlessly, and now, with a cruel smile, he turns toward them. I’ve thrown off the balance of the whole game. I’ve ruined the game for all four of us.

I, the fool who sits down to play without knowing all the rules. The fool whose ignorance didn’t just spoil the fun for himself, but for everyone at the table.

So today, a plea – don’t be a fool. Grit your teeth, clench your fists, and when someone explains the rules, listen.

For thirty years, I’d been complaining about players, just like every Game Master. At every opportunity, be it a convention or a reunion, we would eventually end up whining about how terrible and ungrateful our players were. We tried our best, sweated blood for them, were ready to do everything for them, and paid attention to every little detail. And they would still just show up at the session, stuff themselves with crisps, collect PD, and go home, without even as much as “thank you,” “you’re the best,” or at least cleaning those damn potato crisps after themselves.

I mean, preparing such a session takes dozens of hours. It’s like a full-time job. And afterward, you don’t even get a “thank you”.

In the games I design, players have dozens of decisions to make. In the famous „51st State,” each card can be played in three ways. In „Robinson,” each action can be performed in two ways—safely or with risk. Even in my story-driven „Detective,” I crammed in as many choices as possible—there are 36 cards in the deck, but players will only read 18 of them. Which ones? That’s their choice.

I like choices in games. I like making decisions and, most importantly, I love that moment after the game ends when I look at my score and tell myself, „At that moment, I made the wrong decision. If I played again, I would play differently.”

This week, I played a game during which I hardly made any decisions.

I have always been interested in war games. Unfortunately, I didn’t play them much, as I was navigating through the realms of RPGs, miniature games, and, of course, modern board games. There wasn’t enough time for war games. Additionally, I didn’t have fellow wargamers.

So, every six months or so, I would treat myself to one game. Classics like Commands & Colors: Ancients or Manoeuvre found their way into my collection, and I was playing them maybe twice a year. I somehow justified it, telling myself that it made sense, that if the Annual Playthrough Coefficient was at a solid two, it was worth it.

The crack of the shot broke the silence; the enemies hiding in ambush returned fire and with a shout, they rushed towards us. They advanced from their concealed positions in the shadows of the thicket. It took a moment before we spotted them, before we could reach for our weapons and move to meet them…

It wasn’t the best scenario I’ve ever played in my life. Just a good, fun fantasy adventure. Marcin, who was our Game Master, didn’t reach any great heights of his talent, nor did anything particularly noteworthy. On the contrary, I vaguely remember him leading, cigarette after cigarette, which didn’t quite fit the fantasy theme.

Yet, I remember bits of that session to this day, even though it’s been 20 years. I remember because there was a bonfire around which we played. I remember because after dark, the trees in the orchard next to which we had settled took on menacing shapes, and with the setting sun, they transformed into a mysterious forest. I remember because of the crackling fire, because of the sparks shooting into the sky when we added wood to the fire, because of the distant barking of dogs in the nearby village – all of this transported us into the world of the session as if by the touch of a magic wand. It was one of the best RPG sessions I’ve ever played in my life. Because of the bonfire, because of the orchard, because of the sunset.