I’ve avoided writing this for longer than I’d like to admit. Not because I lacked the words, but because I didn’t want anyone to see this side of me. Anger has always felt like my ugly secret, the part of me that didn’t fit the image I wanted to project.
But here I am, finally talking about it. Not because I’ve “fixed” it (spoiler: I haven’t), but because I’ve started to understand it and, in that process, I’ve started to understand myself.
I have spent the past three months in the company of a man who used to design algorithms for machines and now designs frameworks for living. Mo Gawdat, former Chief Business Officer of Google X, wrote four books that I’ve devoured in succession: “Scary Smart”, “Unstressable”, “Solve for Happy” and “That Little Voice In Your Head: Adjust the Code That Runs Your Brain”.
On paper, he’s an engineer. In spirit, he’s a philosopher. And somewhere between those two identities lies a way of thinking about the human condition that I’ve come to love deeply. For someone like me, who has always found comfort in the precision of mathematics, his approach to human experience is strangely satisfying.
I have a habit of remembering things by seasons: real ones, emotional ones and, at times, the ones marked in cardboard. There’s a season of my life that began five years ago, when I first started playing board games regularly. And like many beginnings, it didn’t announce itself. There was no dramatic awakening, no grand declaration of “I am now a hobbyist”. It simply started with a game about a forest.
Everdell was, quite unintentionally, the key that unlocked something in me. And although I’ve played countless games since (some louder, heavier, sharper, stranger), I keep returning to this gentle woodland valley, as if it’s a place where I left a version of myself who still has something to say.
There is a particular moment in almost every game of Spirit Island that still catches me off guard, no matter how many times I’ve played it. It’s that instant when my co-spirit and I are staring at the board (invaders creeping inland, blight spreading like a bruise) and one of us calmly says: “Okay, we can fix this.”
Board games have been part of my life for four years now and, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the real magic isn’t confined to the table. Don’t get me wrong: I love the ritual of unboxing a game and leaning into hours of strategy and laughter. But somewhere along the way, I realized something important: I don’t just love playing board games. I love talking about them, too.
Debating mechanics. Analyzing strategies. Comparing designs. Even disagreeing passionately about whether a game is elegant or clunky. It’s all part of the experience.
Because here’s my truth: every game has two phases. The play itself. And the echo afterward.
The first time I played PARKS, I didn’t rush through the rules or dive straight into strategy. I stopped. I stared. The artwork pulled me in. Every National Park looked like a painting I wanted to frame, every tiny wooden token felt like holding a miniature piece of nature in my hands.
It reminded me that board games aren’t just about clever mechanics or competitive strategy. They’re also about artistry, the creative vision of illustrators and designers who make the experience feel alive.
This article is my little ode to that vision. Yes, I’ll talk about gameplay and strategy – they’re important. But I also want to celebrate the art, the tactile joy and the immersive beauty that makes PARKS more than a game.