Over 5000 miles, over 20 hours on the road, over a week away from home and the office, all to make it to The Dice Tower con and play Imperial Miners with a few people.

Doesn’t make sense, right? Well, let’s look at it realistically. Let’s assume I go crazy with demos, spending the whole day playing, constantly looking for people interested in the game—I’ll probably do about 6 presentations in eight hours. If I’m lucky, each demo will have four players. With some good luck, I might get to play with around twenty people in Imperial Miners each day.

Flying across the ocean, traveling 5000 miles just for that? Doesn’t make sense.

And yet, I’m going.

“What are the points for in the end?” she asked after I finished reading the rules.
„I don’t know,” I replied, „I haven’t read that part.”

Blasphemy? Madness? Idiocy? Perhaps. Or it’s a worthwhile consideration, a topic worth exploring? Just take a look for yourselves. How many times have you said it’s just the first game, that you’re playing without any pressure, that you’re only getting to know the game, that it’s all chill and cool? But then, in the end, you start counting the points. Suddenly, Krzysiek has 117, Wojtek has 104, and you have 32. And it’s supposed to be chill and cool, but those 32 points sting. It’s the first game, you’re still learning, but these 32 points feel bad anyway.

After all, the first game is about exploration. It’s about understanding the game’s mechanics, searching for synergies, and trying to uncover all those little gears and hidden wheels that drive the entire mechanism. You move in a certain direction, tinker with something, and enjoy the sandbox where you build your little castle, having a great time. But then, boom, the game ends, and you’ve utterly failed with just 32 points, a resounding defeat. It was fun, but now it’s not.

The most important is the last base, and I would very much like to be there already, to check it off, and breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s not that easy. It’s a long, many months process and a lot of bases to run to. It all starts with the prototype.

You get a prototype, it’s awesome, and you’re as fired up as Stannis’s fleet because you’ve just got your hands on a project that will turn into an awesome board game. You play it at the company’s offices, then with a few friendly focus groups, it’s good, everyone congratulates you on your luck, that someone sent you a really cool game. That’s base number one.

Small room, maybe 20 tables in total. Everything is well taken care of, with heart poured into literally every element. There are elegant red tablecloths, huge prints of game tokens decorating the walls, and a cafeteria offering free coffee, tea, and snacks.

This convention was made for fans, by fans. I stepped into the room, and immediately felt like I went at least two decades back. Back to all the events organized by fantasy clubs, to all the non-commercial conventions made with real passion. For fans, by fans.

It had no right to succeed. Not that I wasn’t curious or intrigued. I wanted it to be a great experience, but I just knew it was bound to fail.

Even before it all started, I said: “After 45 minutes, I will stop listening to the rules explanation. I have my limit of information absorption, and it’s exactly 45 minutes.”

And, of course, he didn’t explain all the rules in 45 minutes. It took him another 15 minutes, but I stopped listening. I’m a wordy person—if I say I will process nothing more, I will process nothing more. I had to learn the rules of transporting ground troops with amphibious aircraft in practice when German soldiers landed on my shore in Plymouth.

Przemek, who was explaining the rules, wanted to make it easier for us. He prepared three A3 pieces of paper with tables describing the rules and actions of smaller factions in the conflict—Yugoslavia, Belgium, Greece, and a dozen other countries. Player’s cheat sheet. On three A3 pieces of paper. For some people, it’s helpful. For others, it’s a reason for a heart attack before the game.