It marked the high point of our week.
I come from a tight-knit family, at least in the early days before my sister went off to university. We ate meals together, went camping together, watched Hockey Night in Canada on Saturdays, and Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan movies from TV trays on Sunday evenings. It was a rhythm, a ritual, and it gave the week a comforting structure.
You always knew where you’d be and who you’d be with. It wasn’t always perfect, of course. There were burnt potatoes, over-cooked roast beef, and the occasional sibling squabble. But it was ours, and it mattered.
And we also did something that, lamentably, is becoming a lost activity: we played board games.
When black-and-white television could no longer hold our attention, and it often couldn’t, we’d head to the closet where a stack of slightly battered game boxes leaned against one another like old friends. One would be chosen, the table would be cleared, and the four of us would gather around, snacks in hand and elbows on the table.
There was a quiet kind of magic in those moments. No distractions, no rushing, just a couple of hours where the world narrowed down to dice, cards, and the unpredictable drama of cardboard empires.
I remember my favourite games as a boy: Careers, Conflict, Wide World, and a Monopoly spin-off called Rich Uncle. All of them led to laughter, teasing, and the kind of ridiculous negotiations that only siblings and parents can pull off. Especially Monopoly, where my fledgling hypnotic skills were tested in the fires of high-stakes property deals.
As a kid, my strategy was always the same. Seize Boardwalk and Park Place, then gleefully consign my opponents to the squalor of Baltic Avenue’s urine-soaked hallways. It was a theme I never tired of emphasizing, dramatically, every time someone landed there.
Yes, I was an unusual child. But I admit it, so it’s okay.
Looking back now, those board games provided some of the best memories of my life. Not just for the games themselves, but for the odd little rituals that sprang up around them. Like the infamous orange rabbit’s foot keychain, which I insisted was lucky, despite all evidence to the contrary. Far from being a charm, it became known as the game-night curse.
If someone started losing badly, you could bet they’d find that thing lurking under their chair. At which point accusations would fly, people would burst out laughing, and the entire evening would dissolve into chaos. Someone had definitely planted it there, and we all knew who. But that was part of the fun.
My dad had a habit of humming absentmindedly when he was thinking, which usually meant a devious move was on the way. My sister would narrate the game like a sportscaster when she was in a good mood, and like a prosecuting attorney when she wasn’t. Those little things, the gestures, the quirks, the inside jokes - they formed a language only we spoke.
It’s strange, the little details that stay with you.
As much as I loved our games, Scrabble never quite did it for me. There’s just something about the way it slows to a crawl, the overly intense focus, the endless arguments over whether “qi” is a real word. For me, it had all the excitement of watching someone slowly and deliberately rewire an orbital sander.
But today’s a different world.
People still play games, but they tend to do it on their phones, alone or semi-connected through a screen. And while I know there’s some merit in that - yes, you can sink guided missile cruisers, cram cats into virtual pet hotels, or even play backgammon, my absolute favourite game - I don’t think it compares.
Even when you’re playing a real person somewhere across the world, the camaraderie just isn’t there. The banter, the pauses for snacks, the gleeful trash talk, the shared laughter at a terrible roll of the dice - none of it translates through a screen.
It was that realization, a couple of months ago, that led to the return of structured games night in our house.
We recruited two brave and willing participants from my wife’s obsessive pickleball community. Benn is a lovely East Indian woman and former fashion designer with a surprisingly competitive streak. Steve is a retired computer science teacher with an acerbic wit and a shared love of the blues. Both of them were instantly game, literally and figuratively.
We now meet once a month to honour that ancient and noble North American tradition of gathering around a table designed specifically for that purpose. No screens, no multitasking, just four people giving each other their full attention.
We began with Set, a visually challenging game that I somehow won handily, despite being wired more for sound than sight. From there, we graduated to Wizard, a Canadian card game that surprised us all with how good it was. Simple, strategic, and deeply satisfying. But lately, we’ve landed on our new favourite: Farkle.
Farkle is a dice game, but don’t let that scare you off. It’s far superior to Yahtzee, at least in my opinion. It’s quick, unpredictable, and usually hilarious. The strategy? Either egg your opponents into taking wildly irresponsible risks when everything’s on the line, or lull them into inaction when the moment calls for boldness. You’re not just playing the game. You’re playing the people. It’s glorious.
There are no smartphones on the table. No buzzing, no scrolling, no checking emails under the table. And we’re having a blast.
It’s amazing how something so simple can feel so restorative. It’s not about winning or losing, although I do enjoy winning, especially when it comes with dramatic flair. It’s about being present. Sharing time. Listening to each other’s laughter and groans in real time, in the same room. That’s a kind of wealth that’s harder to come by these days.
In some ways, I think we’re wired for this kind of thing. Human beings were made to sit around fires, or kitchen tables, and laugh and compete and share. We’re social creatures, even when we pretend we’re not. A board game doesn’t just fill time. It anchors us.
So why am I writing about board games and urine-soaked hallways?
Because a regular games night can do more than entertain. It can deepen friendships, create connection, offer laughter, and become a refuge from the overstimulated, anxiety-riddled world outside. It doesn’t have to be complicated or fancy. All it takes is a few people, a shared table, and something worth playing.
It’s okay to be kids and play again. Nothing bad will happen. In fact, something very good might.
So what’s your favourite board game?
Do you still have it somewhere, or will you need to go hunting on eBay for a dog-eared copy that smells faintly of the 1970s?
And when those long-dormant memories start to stir, who will you invite over to share in the laughter, the drama, and the occasional bout of rule-based outrage?
And if, for some mysterious reason, your luck takes a nosedive and things start going sideways, don’t forget to look under your chair.
You might just find an old orange rabbit’s foot hiding there.
- Mike Mandel
(Chris here: Did you know that Mike's entire "Mandel Trilogy" hypnosis bundle is included in the Brain Software Syndicate. The price to join is ridiculously low.)