Tabletop game stores are strange places for me. They're social places, dedicated to board
games, that most social of gaming media, and while I love board games, I am
fundamentally not a social creature.
When I play board games I play them a small group of close friends,
people I already know. I'm not
necessarily opposed to playing board games with strangers, but the idea of
hanging out in a shop designed primarily for that purpose doesn't appeal to
me. Even so, there's something that
strikes me as wrong about a poorly constructed board game store, one that
doesn't have space for play, one that focuses solely on shuffling out
products. The Compleat Strategist chain
is especially bad in this regard, featuring lavish, surprisingly well stocked,
impressively expensive stores bereft of social spaces. It carries through every aspect of their
being, right down to their churning, anti-social customer service. I've never had an experience in a Compleat
Strategist that made me want to come back, I've just had experiences that
didn't seem quite so bad.
All this, despite loving the spaces, the sense of purpose
and unity that a board game store provides.
There's something about board games in particular, about how they are
simultaneously objects of nerd fetish and objects demanding social interaction,
that appealed to the part of me that never quite belonged. A good board game store is a place for people
who don't quite fit that mold, who may or may not in fact fit another mold at
all. It's a space for outsiders, losers,
and loners to be none of those things, to be normal people who love a thing in
a space that thoroughly enshrines it.
I write this as someone who has lived in New York for about
three years now who has just now actually found a legitimate gaming store. It is, as is often the case with board game
stores, incredibly inconveniently located, but it is, all the same, an
incredible space for shared nerd-dom.
The wall of dice, sealed D&D books from the 80s to the present, sealed
AD&D player manuals that hold within them scale models, sexist verbiage and
overly complex tables that, for so long, made tabletop gaming into an
inaccessible cultural construct. The
games, oh god, the games, stacked on top of one another, spread out so that one
can actually browse through them, peruse them, and do so without blocking
passage through the entire god damn store.
And the gaming section: in the back, always in the back, an array of
cheap wood and metal ringed by the same chairs I buy at Target to fill the
common areas of the apartments that I continue to sequence out of every few
months.
It took me less than a year to find Guardian Games in
Portland. I'd visit them once every few
months, usually to buy something small: a set of dice, a pack of Magic
cards. I'd glance at the taps next to
the folding tables they set up in the back of the store and ponder how many
people actually used them, how many people decided to drop by Guardian Games on
their Friday night to sit down, drink a beer, and play a hand of Magic with the
guys. The idea of doing that in a shared
space seemed absurd to me, though a microcosmic view of that same imagined
scene played out in reality time and time again across town in a rotating
sequences of friend's homes and other bars, places where a game of Dominion was
well out of the norm, but still taken in stride by the well-adjusted
Portlanders.
The store, in a real sense, made that kind of tolerance
possible. Not in that it changed
people's minds in some thorough, tangible way, but in that its existence
presented a framework that allowed Portlanders to perceive these games as
social experiences. I would never drive
into Guardian's nightmarish warehouse neighborhood, struggle to find parking, and
then throw back a few on my night off.
It's just not something I'd have in me, the same way I'd be loath to
play a game of Magic the Gathering with a stranger, or ask to cut in on a game
of Catan. But the magic of that social
space, of the game store as construct, projects itself outside of the structure
itself, and into the world at large.
I cannot imagine this phenomena radiating out of The Twenty
Sided store. While it's an amazing
space, it's located in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
It holds up as a sort of bastion against the pervasive irony and
layered, postured disinterest that saturates that part of the world. You cannot be a true, full blooded nerd and
couch your love of The Thing in irony.
It just doesn't compute. You can
be shamed, in fact you may very well be constantly shamed, by your relentless
enthusiasm, but there's never any kind of disinterest behind your play: you
want to win, where winning could mean actually winning, or where winning could
mean playing an interesting, complex game, or where winning could mean making a
story together. I'm glad that a space
like that exists in a place I'd rather never be, and I'm glad I got a chance to
visit it for the first time. Its relatively
remote location, at the intersection of a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood
and a rapidly gentrifying storefront, made for a strange sort of madness, one
that I cannot imagine the raw positive energy of The Twenty Sided store
radiating out into. Perhaps I am wrong:
perhaps I could go into any number of $14 plate bar/restaurants serving gourmet
hot dogs and five dollar cans of PBR and see a hand of four way Magic being
played. Perhaps I could go into a
designer burger shoppe staffed exclusively by waifish men with comically large
mustaches and eavesdrop on the table talk for a Catan game. But it seems so unlikely. The magic of the store is contained. Perhaps this is for the best. There's something special about that energy
when it's pressed into a small space.
When I visited PAX East with my friends we spent relatively
little time on the showroom floor. There
simply wasn't that much we could do as a group.
Most of our time was spent in the tabletop gaming area. In truth, the area was little more than a
series of extra long event tables, the kind you'd usually see in a church basement,
ringed by folding chairs. There were
vendor booths surrounding the gaming area, but the areas itself, with its raw
simplicity and huddled groupings of nerds arrayed around one game or another,
was incredible. We picked a spot on our
own and a handful of us played an overlong game of Munchkin together. At first, it felt a bit like theater, like we
were performing for others. We fudged
the rules, argued over minutae and experienced those delightfully interminable
delayed turns as players eased in and out of paying attention on their
phones. But after a while the magic of
the table started to take hold. Instead
of fumbling through turns, players started to get into it. The theater became real as players spoiled
one another, pushed towards victory only to be torn down in a single brutal
maneuver. At one point Jerry Mother
Fucking Holkins sat down next to us at the very same table to playtest some
sort of Adventure Time looking product, and while we all noticed and nodded
among ourselves, he didn't act like he was any different from us, and it didn't
feel like he was any different. That was
the magic of the table, the magic of that space, where we were all just nerds
playing out our tiny little dramas, relishing our little victories, lamenting
our more frequent defeats. That space
couldn't exist outside PAX. It likely
couldn't even really perpetuate itself within PAX amidst the ambient noise,
marketing, and ham fisted play-by-play announcements. But that corner of that conference hall
conjured the magic that I'm talking about, ringed it in the same confines good
game stores do, and managed to make Boston feel like a safer place for a nerdy
kid from the suburb, a kid who grew up knowing for a fact he should be ashamed
of loving board games and card games as much as he did who still does
today. It was a shrine to something I'd
always loved, and to sit within its limits and play a board game with friends
was sublime.
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