Ever had a brilliant game idea that seemed flawless in your head but didn’t quite hit the mark when it hit the table? I’ve been there, and it’s been an experience.
The Birth of a Game Idea
It all started with a simple concept: a dynamic, customizable board where players would navigate their pawns, collecting tokens and thwarting their opponents. I imagined a game where the board itself was a living, breathing entity—constantly shifting under the players’ control. Tiles could be flipped, rotated, and moved, creating an ever-changing landscape that demanded both quick thinking and long-term strategy. The excitement of visualizing these interactions was intoxicating; I could almost feel the tension as players tried to outmaneuver each other, crafting the perfect path to victory while simultaneously disrupting their opponents’ plans.
In my mind, I had cracked the code on the perfect game—one that was clever, engaging, and just the right amount of competitive. The balance of strategy and chaos seemed like it would lead to endless replayability, with each game offering a new challenge as the board morphed in unpredictable ways. I was certain that this unique blend of mechanics would keep players on their toes, eager to see what twists and turns awaited them.
The Reality Check: First Playtest
Armed with a prototype, I eagerly gathered friends for the first playtest, confident that they would be as thrilled with the game as I was. As we set up the board and began to play, I could feel the anticipation in the room. But as the game unfolded, that excitement quickly fizzled out. The intricate strategies I had imagined gave way to confusion and frustration. What I had envisioned as clever and strategic was, in reality, a tedious and punishing experience for everyone involved.
Players soon found themselves trapped in unfortunate positions, their pawns stuck in limbo, unable to move or collect tokens. The board, which was supposed to be a dynamic battlefield, became a minefield of dead ends and impossible choices. The aggressive take-that elements, which I thought would add tension and excitement, instead created resentment and disengagement. Instead of clever plays, the game became an exercise in survival, with some players completely sidelined, hoping against hope for the spinner to grant them a lifeline. Watching my friends struggle, I realized with a sinking feeling that the game was far from the fun experience I had envisioned.
It was a harsh realization: my fun game wasn’t fun at all. The mechanics that seemed so innovative in theory had turned out to be cumbersome and unforgiving in practice. The energy in the room shifted from enthusiasm to frustration, and I couldn’t help but feel like I had let everyone down. Disheartened and discouraged, I shelved the game almost immediately, unable to face the disappointment of my first attempt. For years, it sat untouched—a constant reminder of what could have been but wasn’t, a symbol of my perceived failure.
Rethinking and Rebuilding
Then, something changed. I’m not sure why or how, but one day, I found myself dusting off that old prototype, feeling a renewed sense of curiosity. Maybe it was the passage of time, allowing me to look at the project with fresh eyes, or perhaps it was a lingering belief that there was something worthwhile in that initial idea. Maybe I was just bored. Whatever the reason, I felt a spark of motivation to give it another shot. As I unpacked the game, memories of that disappointing first playtest flooded back, but this time, they didn’t discourage me. Instead, they fueled a determination to figure out what had gone wrong and how I could fix it.
When I took another look at the game, I realized that while the initial attempt had failed, it hadn’t been a total loss. The fact that I had built and produced a working prototype was, in itself, an accomplishment—one that many aspiring designers never reach. It reminded me that I had the drive and capability to turn an idea into something tangible. And while the feedback from that first playtest had been tough to hear, it was also incredibly valuable. It highlighted the flaws and pitfalls that I hadn’t anticipated, but more importantly, it showed me that I had a lot to learn.
Armed with this new perspective, I approached the game with a critical eye. I pored over my notes from that first playtest, dissecting each piece of feedback and reflecting on the moments that had frustrated the players. I took a hard look at the game’s rules, questioning every mechanic and considering how each one contributed to the overall experience. But I didn’t stop there—I immersed myself in research, revisiting games I loved to analyze what made them successful. I studied their designs, paying closer attention to how they balanced strategy, player agency, and fun.
The result? A new approach that keeps the core concept intact but addresses the major issues that plagued the original. I decided to remove the reliance on luck by ditching the spinner mechanism, giving players more control over their actions. I introduced a cooldown system for certain abilities, ensuring that powerful moves couldn’t be spammed, which I hoped would add strategic depth without overwhelming the players. And perhaps most importantly, I added clear rules for tile placement and orientation, aimed at preventing the frustrating “soft locking” that had plagued the first version.
Moving Forward: The Next Playtest
This time, I’m ditching the spinner mechanism, which relied too heavily on luck and often left players at the mercy of chance. I realized that giving players more control over their decisions would not only make the game more strategic but also more engaging. So, instead of spinning a wheel, players will now choose their actions each turn, carefully considering how to use their abilities to outmaneuver opponents. To maintain balance, some actions will have a cooldown period, preventing any single strategy from dominating the game and encouraging players to think creatively about their moves.
I’ve also added new rules to prevent the dreaded “soft locking” of the game state—a major issue in the original design. By clarifying how tiles can be placed and oriented on the board, I hope to ensure that every player remains in the game, with opportunities to adapt and respond, rather than being stuck in a frustrating loop with no viable options. These adjustments are designed to make the game more fluid and enjoyable, while still retaining the dynamic and unpredictable nature that initially excited me.
These changes feel right. They make sense, and they seem fun in my head—just like the original concept did. But there’s always that nagging fear of failing again, of watching the game flop in the playtest despite all the revisions. What if these changes don’t fix the problems? What if, after all this work, the game still doesn’t capture the fun I’m striving for? It’s a fear that lingers at the back of my mind, yet I know I have to push through it. Game design is a process, often filled with setbacks, and each iteration brings me one step closer to the final product.
Ultimately, I have to believe that this iteration will lead to better feedback, and, more importantly, a more refined and enjoyable game. What I’m really hoping for in this next playtest is to see the players genuinely having a good time—laughing, strategizing, and fully immersed in the experience. The real milestone for me would be hearing them say, “Let’s play again,” because that’s the sign of a game that resonates.
If that doesn’t happen, I’ll take whatever insights I can get to keep refining the game, knowing that each piece of feedback is a stepping stone towards improvement. At the end of the day, I still believe there’s something special about this idea—something worth pursuing, tweaking, and perfecting. I may not know exactly how to bring it to market or pitch it to a publisher, but for now, my focus is on creating a game that’s genuinely fun to play. And that, I think, is the most important thing to strive for.
