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I fell in love with Teotihuacan during a rainy weekend gaming retreat in 2019. Our group had gathered at this cabin in the Poconos, and Kevin had brought along this massive box filled with colorful wooden bits and worker dice. I remember staring at the board—this intricate representation of an ancient Mesoamerican city—and thinking, “Well, this looks pleasantly overwhelming.” Four hours later, I was completely engrossed in the subtle dance of worker dice movement and development, barely noticing that everyone else had moved on to other games while I sat there calculating optimal ascension timing.

After 43 plays (yes, I keep track—Linda finds this habit both amusing and slightly concerning), I’ve come to believe that mastering worker die development is the single most critical skill separating casual players from those who consistently dominate the pyramid construction. The fundamental tension in Teotihuacan revolves around a deceptively simple question: when should you advance your dice versus extracting value from their current state?

For those unfamiliar with the game’s mechanics, you control worker dice that move around the board, performing actions whose power is influenced by the die’s value (1-5). Each time a die performs an action, it advances one pip, potentially increasing its power for future actions. When a die reaches value 6, it “ascends” to the gods, rewarding you with various benefits before returning as a fresh value-1 die. This creates this fascinating cycle of growth and renewal that drives the game’s strategic depth.

My initial approach to worker advancement was straightforward: always advance dice whenever possible, maximizing their values to get the most powerful actions. This seems logical, right? Higher die values mean stronger actions. But after several humbling defeats (particularly memorable was a game where Jim outscored me by nearly 40 points despite having consistently lower-valued dice), I realized my fundamental misunderstanding of the system.

The real art lies not in blindly maximizing die values but in orchestrating their development cycles to create powerful timing advantages. The game isn’t about having high-value dice; it’s about having the right-value dice at precisely the right moments.

Take the Palace action, for example. Many players instinctively use their highest-value dice here to maximize resource collection. But I’ve found that using moderate-value dice (3s or 4s) often provides better long-term efficiency. Why? Because the incremental benefit of using a 5 versus a 4 is usually just one additional resource, while the pip advancement pushes your die toward ascension—potentially at a suboptimal moment.

I remember this pivotal game against Linda where she consistently outmaneuvered me despite my higher average die values. She was strategically using her 3-value dice on key actions, advancing them to 4s, and then deploying them to critical board spaces before ascension. Meanwhile, I was proudly moving around with 5-value dice that kept ascending at inconvenient times, forcing me to rebuild my engine while she maintained perfect operational tempo.

This leads to my first key principle of die development: stagger your advancement cycles. Having all your dice ascend simultaneously creates a massive power vacuum in your engine. Ideally, you want no more than one die ascending every 2-3 turns, ensuring continued operational capability while still capturing the benefits of ascension.

I’ve found that tracking ascension timing becomes almost second nature after multiple plays. Our regular gaming group now refers to this as “die cycle forecasting,” and you can always tell the experienced Teotihuacan players by their slight pause after performing actions, mentally recalculating their dice advancement schedule.

The second critical principle involves what I call “valuable state preservation.” Some die values are inherently more useful for specific actions. For pyramid construction, 4-value dice provide excellent efficiency. For temple advancement, 3-value dice often hit the sweet spot of power versus ascension timing. Recognizing these optimal states and sometimes deliberately avoiding advancement to maintain them can be counterintuitively powerful.

There was this game last summer where I kept a die at value 4 for nearly half the game, repeatedly using it for pyramid construction without advancing it (by paying cocoa to block the advancement). Kevin kept laughing at my “stunted die,” but that consistent access to efficient pyramid actions secured me a comfortable victory. Sometimes stasis is strategically superior to growth.

The third principle addresses what experienced players call the “ascension reward optimization window.” The benefits you receive when a die ascends vary based on your position on the temple tracks and the current game period. This creates specific timing windows where ascension generates maximum returns.

I’ve developed a mental framework for optimal ascension timing: early game ascensions should prioritize dice that will generate resources (cocoa or wood) that fund your engine development. Mid-game ascensions should target temple advancement rewards that improve your action efficiency. Late-game ascensions should focus on direct victory point generation, particularly through temple top-tier rewards.

One particularly satisfying game involved me timing three separate ascensions to perfectly coincide with reaching new temple tiers, creating this cascading effect of rewards that propelled me from third place to a convincing victory in just two rounds. Jim accused me of “temple timing sorcery,” which I consider perhaps the finest compliment I’ve ever received in gaming.

The fourth principle revolves around “worker value concentration strategies.” Rather than evenly distributing advancements across all your dice, concentrating advancements on specific workers creates powerful specialization opportunities. Having two or three high-value dice dedicated to specific actions often outperforms having five or six moderately valuable dice spread across multiple action types.

I witnessed the power of this approach in a game against Mike, who concentrated on developing just three of his dice to high values while keeping the others at 1-2 pips. His specialized workforce allowed him to dominate the pyramid construction and decorations, while his low-value dice efficiently handled cocoa collection with minimal risk of unwanted ascension. The strategy seemed counterintuitive at first but proved devastatingly effective.

The fifth principle addresses what I call “advancement acceleration thresholds.” Certain board actions and technologies allow you to advance dice multiple pips at once. Recognizing when to leverage these acceleration opportunities—and more importantly, when to avoid them—creates significant timing advantages.

For instance, the Avenue of the Dead technology that advances dice an extra pip can be either beneficial or detrimental depending on your ascension schedule. I’ve seen players excitedly grab this technology only to find their carefully planned advancement cycles thrown into chaos as dice ascended prematurely, leaving them without workers for critical actions.

My most dramatic experience with advancement acceleration came in a game where I deliberately positioned three dice to ascend simultaneously (breaking my usual staggered approach) specifically because I had secured technologies that granted powerful rewards for coordinated ascension. The massive resource and point influx from this synchronized ascension—which I privately called my “rapture turn”—created an insurmountable lead. Sometimes breaking your own rules works when you’ve created the conditions for exception.

The sixth principle focuses on “cocoa-powered advancement control.” Paying cocoa to block the advancement of a die after taking an action seems inefficient on its surface. Why waste a precious resource to prevent improvement? But this mechanism provides crucial timing control that often justifies the cost.

I’ve developed a rule of thumb: if maintaining a die at its current value for one more action will generate at least 2 points more value than letting it advance, the cocoa cost is justified. This calculation becomes second nature after multiple plays, creating what my gaming group now calls “advancement denial decisions.”

During a particularly tight game with Linda, I spent 6 cocoa over several turns keeping a 4-value die locked for pyramid construction. She thought I was wasting resources until that die secured the final three pyramid levels in succession, earning me both the placement points and the level completion bonus. Sometimes strategic stagnation creates more value than progression.

The seventh principle involves what veteran players call “die value action matching.” Different board locations benefit from different die values based on their specific mechanics. Aligning your dice development to have appropriate values for your strategic priorities creates significant efficiency advantages.

For example, the Alchemy action works well with any die value, making it perfect for 1-pip dice fresh from ascension. The Decorations action scales directly with die value, making it ideal for your highest dice. Understanding these value-to-action relationships allows you to plot movement and development patterns that maximize efficiency.

I remember a game where Jim consistently used his low-value dice (1-2) for cocoa collection, mid-value dice (3-4) for pyramid construction, and high-value dice (5) for decoration placement. This specialized workforce approach created remarkable efficiency compared to my more haphazard die deployment. The lesson was clear: die value should inform action selection as much as strategic need.

The eighth principle addresses “temple-synced advancement timing.” The temple tracks provide powerful benefits that often interact with ascension mechanics. Timing your advancement to maximize these synergies creates compounding advantages that can decide games.

I’ve found particular success with timing ascensions to coincide with reaching temple thresholds that provide advancement-related benefits. This creates virtuous cycles where ascension generates resources that fund further temple advancement, which improves future ascensions, and so on.

In our last game night, I managed to time an ascension precisely when I reached the second level of the blue temple track, which reduced my cocoa payment for future actions. This single well-timed ascension created a cascading efficiency advantage that funded my entire mid-game strategy. Kevin now refers to this as my “temple timing obsession,” but the results speak for themselves.

The ninth principle focuses on what I call “season-appropriate advancement pacing.” The game’s three seasons create natural rhythm shifts that should influence your advancement strategy. Early seasons favor faster advancement to reach powerful die values quickly, while later seasons often benefit from controlled, strategic ascensions timed for maximum point generation.

I’ve developed different advancement targets for each season: in the first season, I aim to get at least two dice to value 5 to power early pyramid construction. In the second season, I focus on staggered ascensions to maintain operational capability while maximizing temple position improvements. In the final season, I prioritize timing ascensions to generate direct victory points, particularly through temple rewards.

Last month, I played a game where I barely advanced my dice in the final season, instead focusing on extracting maximum value from their current positions. Meanwhile, my opponent pushed for multiple late-game ascensions that generated impressive-looking rewards but disrupted their ability to execute their final strategic moves. The lesson was clear: late-game operational consistency often outweighs ascension rewards.

The final principle addresses what experienced players call “die reset strategic timing.” When a die ascends, it returns as a value-1 die, which seems like a downgrade but creates specific opportunities. Sometimes deliberately timing an ascension to create a low-value die opens up strategic options unavailable with mid or high-value workers.

For instance, having fresh value-1 dice can be perfect for cocoa collection actions where you want minimal advancement. They’re also ideal for the Palace discovery tiles that provide benefits based on your lowest die value. Understanding when a “reset” creates more opportunity than continued advancement is a hallmark of experienced play.

In one particularly satisfying game, I deliberately pushed a 5-value die into ascension specifically to get a fresh 1-value die that could claim a discovery tile requiring my lowest possible value. The tile provided technology discounts that funded my late-game engine, creating far more value than if I’d preserved the high-value die. Sometimes the reset is more valuable than the continuation.

What continues to fascinate me about Teotihuacan after so many plays is how this seemingly simple advancement mechanism creates such profound strategic depth. The constant tension between immediate action power and long-term advancement timing generates these intricate decision trees that reward careful planning and adaptation.

I’ve developed elaborate shorthand notes for tracking my dice development during games—little symbols that help me forecast ascension timing and plan movement patterns. Linda finds this system both impressive and slightly concerning, particularly when I start muttering about “optimal ascension windows” during dinner conversations completely unrelated to gaming.

But that’s the magic of brilliantly designed games like Teotihuacan. They create these intricate mental models that continue working in your mind long after the pieces are back in the box. The ancient city builders would probably appreciate the way their city continues inspiring strategic thinking across centuries—though they might be slightly confused by our colorful wooden dice representing their workforce.

I’ve been playing Terraforming Mars since the week it was released, when I drove forty minutes to a game store that got their shipment early because I couldn’t wait two more days for my pre-order to arrive. Worth it? Absolutely. That weekend, I played seven games back-to-back with different groups, trying every corporation I could get my hands on. My wife Linda thought I’d lost my mind a bit, but she also knows that when I find a game with interlocking systems this elegant, I tend to get a bit… focused.

Nearly 200 plays later (plus another 80-something on the digital version during business trips), I’ve developed strong opinions about corporation selection that occasionally cause friendly arguments during our game nights. “No, don’t take Thorgate just because you have two power cards in your opening hand!” is apparently not something you should yell in a restaurant, as I learned during a memorable game at our local brewery’s board game night. The waitress gave us concerned looks for the rest of the evening.

The fact is, your corporation selection is the single most important decision you’ll make in Terraforming Mars. It shapes your entire strategic direction and, when paired with the right project cards, creates compounding advantages that can be the difference between a mediocre final score and a dominant performance. I’ve tracked scores across my plays (I keep a small notebook specifically for this—yes, I know it’s a bit much), and the correlation between appropriate corporation selection and final game position is remarkably strong.

But here’s the thing about corporation selection that many players miss: it’s not just about picking the “best” corporation. It’s about synergy—choosing a corporation that maximizes the value of your initial cards AND aligns with the game state created by other players’ choices. Corporations that might be mediocre in some circumstances become powerhouses in others.

Take Ecoline, for instance. In a standard game, their ability to place greenery tiles at a discount seems merely good, not amazing. But add in the Venus Next expansion with colonies that reward plant production, plus an initial hand with a few plant-generating projects, and suddenly you’re looking at a corporation that can create runaway scoring advantages through production and tile placement synergies. I watched my friend Mike score 127 points with Ecoline in exactly this scenario—a full 32 points ahead of the second-place player.

The corporations in Terraforming Mars broadly fall into a few strategic categories: production engines, terraforming specialists, card-draw engines, and specialized economies. Understanding which category aligns with your opening hand is step one of effective selection.

Beginner players often gravitate toward corporations with strong starting production like Mining Guild or Thorgate because the immediate economic advantage feels good. And they’re not wrong—production is essential. But the corporations with less flashy immediate benefits and stronger long-term synergies often outperform for experienced players. I’m looking at you, Inventrix and Saturn Systems.

My personal favorite corporation—though I’ll happily play any of them—is probably Teractor. Their discount on Earth tags creates opportunities for incredible economic efficiency, especially when you can grab key cards like Earth Office or Earth Catapult early. My highest ever score (152 in a three-player game) came from a Teractor game where I had Earth Office by generation 3 and managed to play 27 Earth-tagged cards over the course of the game. Each of those cards effectively generated additional MC through the discount, creating a compounding efficiency that my opponents simply couldn’t match.

But I’ve also had Teractor games where I drew almost no Earth tags after the initial hand and struggled to find my footing, limping to a fourth-place finish. That’s the beauty and challenge of corporation selection—you’re making a strategic commitment based on incomplete information. You know your initial hand, but not what you’ll draw later.

This uncertainty is why I recommend a hybrid approach to corporation selection—choose a corporation that both strongly synergizes with your opening hand AND maintains flexibility for pivoting as the game evolves. Corporations like Inventrix (with their flexible tag requirements) or UNMI (with the straightforward but powerful TR bump action) can serve as safety valves if your primary strategy faces obstacles.

Let’s walk through how I evaluate corporations for specific opening hands:

If you’ve drawn multiple energy production cards, Thorgate becomes an obvious contender. But don’t just look at the immediate discount—consider whether those power projects lead somewhere strategically valuable. Are they stepping stones to heat production for late-game terraforming? Do they enable specific power-hungry cards you also hold? The discount is just the beginning of Thorgate’s value proposition.

I played a memorable game against my neighbor Jeff, who chose Thorgate with four power cards in his initial hand. Seemed like a no-brainer, right? But those cards were mostly small energy bumps without strategic direction. Meanwhile, I took Phobolog with just two aviation cards but a clear path toward Jovian multipliers. The game wasn’t even close—I outscored him by nearly 40 points because his corporation choice amplified tactics without supporting a coherent strategy.

If your hand contains city-building potential, Tharsis Republic can be devastating. Their bonus for city placement compounds throughout the game—each city not only gives you an immediate MC bump but increases the value of every future city for ALL players. This creates a fascinating incentive where you want to build cities early and often, while other players might try to delay their urban development to avoid feeding your engine.

My wife Linda has become frighteningly good with Tharsis Republic, to the point where our game group now practically holds a draft to determine who has to sit to her left when she selects it. Her approach typically involves rushing at least two cities in the first generation, using the placement bonuses to bootstrap her economy, then transitioning into a heavy greenery strategy to maximize tile scoring. The last time she used this approach, she placed seven cities over the course of the game. Do the math on those bonuses, and you’ll understand why we’re all a bit afraid of her Tharsis Republic games.

For players who draw research-heavy hands, Saturn Systems or Inventrix create strong foundations. The ability to capitalize on science tags (Saturn Systems) or flex requirements for global parameters (Inventrix) can accelerate your development curve significantly. I particularly like Saturn Systems when I’ve drawn cards with multiple science tags like Research Coordination or Viral Enhancers, creating compounding discounts.

At a convention tournament last year (yes, I’m that guy who enters board game tournaments), I faced an opponent who combined Saturn Systems with an opening hand containing both Research Coordination and Research Outpost. By generation three, they were playing science-tagged cards at ridiculous discounts while accumulating VP from tech-tile adjacency. I actually applauded when they closed out their final turn—the engine was that elegant.

The financial corporations like Interplanetary Cinematics (starting with 30 MC plus steel) or Mining Guild (starting with increased steel production) require careful evaluation. Their advantage is flexibility—more resources immediately means more options for your first generation plays. But without specific synergies in your project cards, you may find that dedicated corporations outpace you in the mid-game.

I’ve had mixed results with these corporations, finding that they work best when my opening hand contains a mix of opportunities without a clear thematic direction. In those cases, the additional resources let me establish multiple strategic threads and then commit more heavily based on what I draw in the first few generations. It’s a “keep your options open” approach that can be surprisingly effective in highly competitive games where direct strategic conflict is common.

What about the expansions? The corporations from Prelude, Venus Next, and Colonies each introduce new strategic angles that can dramatically impact optimal selection. Colonies corporations like Valley Trust or Polyphemos create unique economic engines that interact with the colony track in ways that can generate massive advantages with the right setup.

I once played Polyphemos in a game where Luna and Callisto both appeared as colony options, giving me trade bonuses that perfectly complemented my titanium-heavy project cards. The resource conversion efficiency let me terraform at nearly double the rate of my opponents. My friend Dave still brings up that game with a grimace, particularly the generation where I elevated the temperature twice and placed three ocean tiles in a single turn.

Venus Next corporations add another layer of strategic consideration, particularly with corporations like Morning Star Inc. that can capitalize on Venus tags for both economic and scoring purposes. If you draw Venus-oriented cards like Giant Solar Shade or Stratospheric Birds in your opening hand, these corporations can create focused strategies that generate substantial points while contributing to terraforming requirements.

Perhaps the most important and often overlooked factor in corporation selection is the meta-game—what corporations and strategies are your opponents likely to pursue? If everyone at the table gravitates toward heat production and temperature raising, the relative value of corporations that excel in other terraforming areas increases. If you’re playing with expansion boards that make oceans particularly valuable, Tektor’s ocean-placing discount becomes more strategically relevant.

This contextual evaluation requires familiarity with both the game and your specific play group. In my regular Thursday night sessions, I know that Pete almost always prioritizes greenery placement while Sarah tends toward card-draw engines. This knowledge influences my corporation selection—sometimes toward direct competition if I have the cards to support it, but more often toward complementary strategies that can capitalize on the board state they’re likely to create.

After all these plays and all this analysis, the most important piece of advice I can offer is this: your corporation is a tool, not a straitjacket. The best players adapt their strategy based on what they draw, what their opponents do, and how the board develops—regardless of their initial corporation choice. I’ve seen brilliant comebacks from players who faced poor draws but found creative ways to leverage their corporation’s abilities in unexpected directions.

The magic of Terraforming Mars lies in these adaptive challenges, the constant puzzle of extracting maximum value from the intersection of your corporation, your cards, and the evolving Mars board. And honestly, that’s why it remains in my top five games after all these years—each play presents a new strategic puzzle that never quite repeats.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go convince Linda that we absolutely need to play “just one quick game” before bed. I’ve got a theory about Ecoline that I’m dying to test…

The first time I played The Mind was at a small gaming café in Portland back in 2018. The owner had just received a shipment of new games and insisted our group try this strange little card game with the simplest rules I’d ever seen: play numbered cards in ascending order without communicating. That’s it. No talking, no signals, no nothing. Just somehow know when it’s your turn to play.

I remember looking across the table at Linda with pure skepticism. “This can’t possibly work,” I thought. Two hours and seventeen levels later, we were true believers, shouting in celebration after each successful round and staring in disbelief when we somehow, impossibly, played cards in perfect sequence despite having no way to coordinate.

The Mind is one of those rare games that’s simultaneously simple to explain and profoundly difficult to master. The rules explicitly forbid verbal and non-verbal communication. You can’t talk, gesture, tap the table, or use any deliberate signals. Yet after 130+ plays across various groups (yes, I keep track—occupational hazard of running a board game strategy site), I’ve discovered there are completely legitimate techniques that dramatically improve performance without breaking the rules.

Let me be absolutely clear before diving in: I’m not advocating for cheating. The magic of The Mind comes from the challenge of its restrictions. But there’s a fascinating space between explicit communication and pure guesswork that skilled players learn to navigate. These approaches don’t violate the rules—they work within them to create a shared mental framework that feels almost telepathic when it clicks.

The most fundamental technique we’ve developed is what I call “consistent cadence playing.” This isn’t about signaling with timing; it’s about establishing a group rhythm that naturally accommodates the numerical spread of cards. Players who’ve internalized this approach don’t play at irregular intervals—they naturally adjust their timing based on the numerical gap they perceive must exist before their lowest card.

For example, if the last card played was 15, and my lowest card is 18, I instinctively allow less time to pass than if my lowest card were 34. This isn’t communication—it’s logical deduction based on probability and the shared structure of the deck. We’re not signaling to each other; we’re independently but consistently applying the same mathematical reasoning.

I once played with a group of math professors who took this concept to an almost frightening level of precision. Their internal timing was so consistent that they could successfully navigate the highest levels with what appeared to be superhuman coordination. When I asked how they managed it, one professor shrugged and said, “Normal distribution curves.” Not signals, just shared statistical intuition.

The second technique builds on this foundation: “breath synchronization.” Again, this isn’t about explicit signaling. When a group plays The Mind regularly, they naturally fall into a shared breathing pattern. This happens unconsciously but creates a subtle group rhythm that helps align player timing. By being aware of and leaning into this natural phenomenon, groups can achieve remarkable synchronization without technically communicating.

Our regular Tuesday group discovered this accidentally after about a dozen plays together. We noticed that during particularly intense moments—like trying to determine if someone has a card between 45 and 47—we’d all naturally hold our breath slightly, then release it together as the tension broke. This wasn’t planned; it emerged organically from shared focus. Now we intentionally tune into this group breathing pattern, which significantly improves our coordination.

The third approach involves what I call “presence weighting.” The rules prevent you from signaling whether you have cards to play, but nothing prevents you from being aware of subtle changes in other players’ focus and attention. As players mentally prepare to play a card, their quality of attention shifts slightly. This isn’t something they’re doing deliberately to signal—it’s simply the natural human response to preparing for action.

Experienced Mind players develop sensitivity to these attention shifts. If I sense that Linda’s focus has intensified, I might subconsciously allow more time before playing my 38, intuitively understanding that she’s mentally preparing to play something lower. Again, she’s not signaling me—I’m just picking up on the natural psychological state that accompanies readiness to act.

I witnessed the power of presence weighting during a six-player game at a convention last year. A player named Marcus was visibly wrestling with something, though he made no deliberate signals. His internal conflict was simply apparent in his quality of attention. Our entire group instinctively allowed more time, and sure enough, he eventually played a 31 that would have otherwise collided with another player’s 33. Afterward, he confirmed he’d been internally debating whether to play or wait. He didn’t signal anything—his natural psychological state was simply legible to attentive players.

The fourth technique, “failure pattern recognition,” develops over repeated plays with the same group. When players repeatedly fail at similar junctures (like consistently playing cards too quickly in the 50-60 range), the group naturally adjusts without explicit communication. This isn’t signaling; it’s learning from shared experience.

Our group struggled repeatedly with cards in the high 80s and low 90s during our first dozen sessions. We’d successfully navigate the difficult early game, only to crash and burn near the end. After multiple similar failures, we all independently adjusted our timing for that numerical range. Nobody said, “Let’s wait longer when we get to the 80s”—we simply learned from experience and individually modified our approaches in parallel.

The fifth and perhaps most powerful technique is what I call “invisible counting.” Many players naturally count silently after a card is played, using the passage of time as a proxy for numerical distance. The beautiful thing about this approach is that with enough practice, a group will converge on remarkably similar counting cadences without ever discussing it.

My regular group has played together so often that our internal counting rhythms have naturally synchronized. Nobody counts “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” at exactly the same pace, but after dozens of shared experiences, our individual counting rates have unconsciously aligned. This isn’t communication—it’s convergent evolution through shared experience.

There was this one magical session where we completed all levels with every ninja star remaining. Afterward, trying to understand our success, we discovered we’d all been using almost identical internal counting approaches—not because we’d coordinated, but because we’d independently converged on similar techniques through repeated play. It felt genuinely telepathic.

The sixth technique leverages what psychologists call “group entrainment”—the natural human tendency to synchronize with others in close proximity. Musicians experience this when they fall into groove together. In The Mind, experienced players lean into this natural human phenomenon, allowing themselves to feel the group’s collective rhythm without explicit communication.

This isn’t mystical; it’s a documented psychological phenomenon. Humans naturally synchronize with each other—it’s why concert audiences applaud in unison despite no conductor. By embracing rather than fighting this tendency, Mind players can achieve remarkable coordination while remaining firmly within the rules.

I’ve found the entrainment effect strongest when players sit in physical proximity and maintain consistent eye contact. Again, you’re not using eye contact to signal—”I’m looking at you intensely so don’t play yet!”—but rather creating conditions where natural human synchronization can emerge most strongly.

The seventh approach involves “emotional temperature reading.” The rules prevent deliberate signaling of emotional states, but nothing prevents you from being attentive to the natural tension or relaxation players exhibit. If everyone seems relatively relaxed, it likely means no one has cards in the immediate vicinity of the last played number. If there’s palpable tension, it suggests closely clustered cards.

Last Christmas, playing with family, I could feel my brother-in-law Mike practically vibrating with tension after someone played a 42. Without any specific signal from him, it was obvious he had something close. I held my 44, and sure enough, he played a 43. He didn’t signal me—his natural emotional state was simply apparent.

The eighth technique, “personal tendency adaptation,” involves learning your teammates’ natural timing patterns without explicit discussion. Some players consistently wait longer than probability would suggest; others tend toward quicker play. After several sessions together, you naturally account for these individual tendencies without communication.

My friend Kevin consistently plays faster than optimal probability would suggest. This isn’t something we’ve discussed—it’s simply his natural tendency. After numerous sessions, our group has individually adapted to this personal quirk. We don’t need to talk about it; we’ve simply internalized that “Kevin time” runs slightly faster than standard Mind time.

The ninth approach uses what I call “post-failure calibration.” The rules don’t prevent you from learning from mistakes. When cards collide, you gain valuable information about timing discrepancies between players. Though you don’t explicitly discuss these failures, each player naturally recalibrates their internal timing based on what they’ve learned.

We had a particularly instructive failure during level 8 of a game last month. Jim and I played the 67 and 68 simultaneously. Without discussion, we both internalized the lesson that our timing was too compressed in that numerical range. In subsequent rounds, our play in the 60s region was perfectly spaced, not because we communicated, but because we’d individually learned from the shared experience.

The final technique is perhaps the most abstract: “collective flow state cultivation.” Experienced Mind players learn to foster conditions that promote flow states—that feeling of being “in the zone” where actions become almost automatic. This isn’t communication; it’s creating an optimal psychological environment for synchronized play.

Our most successful Mind sessions typically occur when we take a few moments before starting to center ourselves collectively. No one speaks—we simply share a moment of focused attention that helps align our mental states. Sometimes we’ll close our eyes for a few seconds before beginning. This isn’t communication; it’s preparation for optimal performance.

I remember one particularly transcendent session where we completed the entire game while feeling almost linked at a cognitive level. Afterward, trying to understand what had happened, we realized we’d all independently entered a similar mental state—focused yet relaxed, attentive yet not overthinking. We hadn’t communicated this state to each other; we’d simply created conditions where it could emerge naturally in everyone.

The beauty of The Mind lies in this space between explicit communication and random guesswork. These techniques don’t break the rules—they work within them to create a shared mental framework that feels almost supernatural when it works. The game becomes not about finding clever ways to signal, but about developing legitimate psychological synchronization that works within the constraints.

After hundreds of plays, I’ve come to believe The Mind isn’t really about telepathy or even communication. It’s about humans’ remarkable ability to synchronize and coordinate without explicit signals—to create shared understanding through repeated interaction and mutual adaptation. The joy comes not from circumventing the rules but from discovering how much coordination is possible within them.

So next time you play, don’t look for ways to cheat the system. Instead, explore this fascinating territory of legitimate synchronization. Listen to the group’s breathing. Feel the rhythm of play. Attune yourself to the collective attention. And watch in amazement as cards somehow, impossibly, fall in perfect sequence—no signals required.

My first experience with TIME Stories wasn’t actually playing it—it was watching a group at a local convention become increasingly frustrated as they burned through temporal units without making tangible progress. They’d reach the end of their resources, reset the scenario, and then proceed to make many of the same mistakes again. I remember thinking, “There has to be a more efficient way to approach this.” Six months later, when I finally acquired the base game and the first few expansions, figuring out that “more efficient way” became my obsession.

After completing every published module (yes, including that brutally difficult Estrella Drive), I’ve developed a framework for minimizing wasted runs that works surprisingly well across all scenarios, regardless of their specific mechanics or settings. The beauty of TIME Stories lies in its unique time loop structure—you’re expected to fail, reset, and try again with accumulated knowledge. But “expected to fail” doesn’t mean you should waste precious temporal units learning things you could have deduced more efficiently.

Let me back up and establish some foundations for those less familiar with the game. In TIME Stories, players control temporal agents sent to various time periods to resolve paradoxes. Each “run” through a scenario consumes temporal units (TU), a limited resource. When you run out, you’re yanked back to base and must “reset,” starting the scenario over but retaining your knowledge. The key to success is minimizing the number of resets by extracting maximum value from each run.

The most fundamental principle I’ve discovered is what I call “information density mapping.” This isn’t just about gathering information—it’s about understanding where high-value information is concentrated and prioritizing those locations. In your first run of any module, resist the temptation to “solve” anything. Instead, focus exclusively on building a mental map of which locations contain crucial information versus those that merely drain resources.

I vividly remember playing Asylum (the base game scenario) with my regular group for the first time. Linda, my wife, was absolutely determined to resolve the situation with the patient in Cell 42 during our first run. She spent precious time units on what was ultimately a side quest that could have been more efficiently addressed later. Meanwhile, Kevin was mapping the facility, identifying which rooms contained critical path information versus interesting but optional content. His approach proved far more valuable for our second run.

This leads to my second principle: “specialization over diffusion.” In most modules, having every player explore the same locations results in massive inefficiency. Instead, divide and conquer. Once you’ve created your information density map, assign specific areas of investigation to each player based on their receptor’s strengths (the character they’re inhabiting). This maximizes the useful information gathered per time unit spent.

We played The Marcy Case about a year ago, and we used this specialization approach to tremendous effect. Jim took his combat-oriented receptor and systematically explored all potentially dangerous locations to map threat levels. I used my high-observation character to investigate detail-heavy locations, while Linda’s charismatic receptor handled all social interactions. This division allowed us to complete the module in just two runs—a group record for a first playthrough.

The third critical strategy is what I’ve dubbed “progressive elimination documentation.” TIME Stories throws enormous amounts of information at you, and your human memory will inevitably fail. We’ve developed a consistent note-taking protocol that not only records what we’ve learned but specifically documents what we’ve eliminated as irrelevant. This prevents the common pitfall of re-investigating dead ends after a reset.

For this purpose, I actually created a standard template we use for every module—a single sheet with sections for critical path notes, character-specific information, eliminated options, and “must investigate next run” priorities. I’m not typically this organized in games, but TIME Stories specifically punishes disorganized information management more than any other game I’ve encountered.

Speaking of resets, my fourth principle addresses how to maximize the value of inevitable failures: “controlled burn strategy.” When you recognize that your current run won’t yield a complete solution (which is almost guaranteed in your first run through any module), don’t just play until you run out of TU. Instead, shift to a deliberate information-gathering mode, specifically targeting knowledge that will be most valuable for your next attempt.

There was this moment playing Under the Mask where we realized about halfway through our TU supply that we couldn’t possibly complete the scenario in that run. Rather than haphazardly exploring until forced to reset, we deliberately focused our remaining resources on mapping the complete layout of the ancient temple—information that proved invaluable in our subsequent run. What initially seemed like a failure became a strategic information-gathering exercise.

This ties directly to my fifth key approach: “temporal triage.” Not all information in TIME Stories has equal value or urgency. Learning to distinguish between what must be discovered immediately versus what can wait for a future run dramatically improves efficiency. Prioritize information that unlocks new locations or provides context for puzzles you know you’ll encounter, rather than exhaustively exploring every dialogue option at each location.

Expedition: Endurance (still my favorite module) presented a particularly challenging temporal triage situation. The constantly shifting ship layout meant certain information had to be gathered immediately before access was lost, while other investigations could be deferred. We ended up developing a priority matrix specific to that scenario, categorizing information as “must acquire this run” versus “valuable but can wait” versus “interesting but non-essential.”

My sixth strategy addresses a common failure point I’ve observed in many groups: “parallel puzzle processing.” TIME Stories often presents multiple interconnected puzzles that need simultaneous consideration. Rather than having the entire group focus on solving one puzzle at a time, distribute puzzle elements among players to identify patterns and connections more efficiently.

During our playthrough of A Prophecy of Dragons (which has some genuinely challenging puzzles), we initially got stuck trying to collectively solve the constellation puzzle. Progress accelerated dramatically when we split into pairs, each examining different aspects of the puzzle simultaneously and periodically conferring about potential connections. This parallel processing cut our puzzle-solving time nearly in half.

One of the most counter-intuitive strategies I’ve developed is what I call “strategic ignorance management.” This sounds paradoxical in a game about gathering information, but hear me out. Sometimes, having too much non-essential information overloads your decision-making. Learning to deliberately ignore certain types of information—particularly intricate backstory elements that don’t directly impact puzzle-solving—can sharpen your focus on critical path progression.

I noticed this phenomenon most clearly in Lumen Fidei, which bombards you with rich historical and religious details. Our first attempt bogged down as we tried to process every nuance of the setting’s complex political and theological landscape. In our second attempt, we ruthlessly categorized information as either “mechanically relevant” or “thematic flavor” and focused primarily on the former. This more discriminating approach sliced two full runs off our completion time.

Combat in TIME Stories presents its own strategic considerations, addressed by my eighth principle: “combat resource forecasting.” Most modules feature combat encounters that drain precious resources like life points or items. Learning to predict approximately how many combat encounters remain in a run allows for much more efficient resource allocation. This often means accepting some damage in early encounters to conserve items for later, more difficult confrontations.

Brotherhood of the Coast illustrated this principle perfectly. The scenario features multiple combat encounters of varying difficulty, and our first run failed partly because we used all our combat items too early. In subsequent runs, we developed a forecasting approach—mapping expected combat locations and difficulty levels—that allowed for much more strategic item use. The difference was dramatic: from being overwhelmed in our first attempt to confidently managing encounters in our second.

My ninth strategy relates specifically to character selection: “receptor complementarity planning.” The characters available in each module are deliberately designed with strengths and weaknesses that should be balanced across your team. Rather than each player simply choosing their favorite character, analyze how different combinations will handle the specific challenges you expect to face based on the module’s theme and initial information.

When we played The Forbidden Mask (a personal favorite for its clever mechanics), our initial receptor selection proved disastrously imbalanced for the scenario’s requirements. After our first reset, we completely reconfigured our team based on what we’d learned about the module’s challenges, selecting receptors whose abilities specifically complemented each other. This single change probably saved us an entire run’s worth of temporal units.

My final universal principle is perhaps the most important: “predictive reset timing.” Rather than waiting until you’re forced to reset by exhausting all temporal units, learn to recognize the optimal moment for a voluntary reset. This typically occurs when you’ve gathered all reasonably accessible information with your current resources/items/access but can’t progress further without starting fresh.

During Estrella Drive (widely considered the most challenging module), we made the difficult decision to reset with 4 temporal units still remaining because we recognized we lacked a critical item needed for further progression. This deliberate reset, rather than spending those remaining units fruitlessly, positioned us perfectly for our subsequent run.

What fascinates me about TIME Stories is how it inverts traditional gaming wisdom. In most games, failure represents wasted effort. In TIME Stories, failure is an integral learning mechanism—but only if you fail intelligently. The difference between frustrated players and successful temporal agents isn’t avoiding failure but extracting maximum value from each inevitable failure.

I’ll admit I maintain embarrassingly detailed spreadsheets tracking our performance across all modules—runs required, TU efficiency metrics, information retention rates between resets. My gaming group mercilessly teases me about this (Kevin has threatened to revoke my “fun person” card multiple times), but the data has helped us refine our approach with each new module. Our completion efficiency has improved dramatically; what once took us four or five runs we can now often complete in two or three.

These strategies have transformed TIME Stories from a sometimes frustrating experience into a consistently enjoyable puzzle that rewards methodical thinking and team coordination. The joy isn’t just in solving the mystery but in the satisfaction of executing an efficient temporal investigation—minimizing wasted time and maximizing information yield from each precious run through the past.

So next time you send your consciousness hurtling backward through time, remember: map information density, specialize agent roles, document eliminated options, burn runs strategically, triage information by value, process puzzles in parallel, manage ignorance deliberately, forecast combat resource needs, plan complementary receptor teams, and reset at optimal moments rather than forced ones. Your temporal unit efficiency will improve dramatically, and isn’t that really what the Time Agency wants from its agents?

Well, that and preventing the collapse of reality as we know it. But efficient paperwork probably comes first.

I still remember my first Politics phase in Twilight Imperium like it was yesterday, even though it was actually somewhere around 2008 in Jeff’s basement. I’d selected the Politics strategy card, feeling incredibly powerful as I shuffled through the agenda deck, searching for something that would benefit my Emirates of Hacan. After careful consideration, I proposed what I thought was a perfectly reasonable law that would slightly boost trade—clearly benefiting everyone, but my merchant faction most of all.

What followed was twelve minutes of the most brutal negotiation I’d ever experienced in a board game. My “reasonable” proposal was systematically dismantled by five other players who suddenly seemed convinced I was about to win the game if this passed. The agenda failed with one vote in favor (mine) and everyone else against. My political career was over before it began.

After 60+ games of this magnificent space opera spanning nearly fifteen years, I’ve learned that the Politics phase isn’t about the agendas you want to pass—it’s about understanding exactly what everyone else at the table wants and fears, then leveraging that knowledge to advance your position. The actual content of the agenda cards is almost secondary to the psychological game being played above the table.

I think of Politics in Twilight Imperium as having three distinct layers: the formal rules layer (what the cards say), the negotiation layer (what deals you make), and the meta layer (what this reveals about everyone’s strategic position). Most players focus entirely on the first two, but it’s mastery of that third layer that actually gets your agendas passed.

Let’s start with a concrete framework I’ve developed for evaluating the table before I even look at the agenda cards. For each player, I mentally assign values to four key factors:

1. Their current victory point count and trajectory
2. Their board position (territory control and fleet strength)
3. Their racial abilities and how they interact with potential agendas
4. Their personality as a player (aggressive, passive, vindictive, etc.)

That last one might seem out of place, but in a game like TI, the human element is as important as the game mechanics. My friend Tom will never support an agenda that helps the player who last attacked him, even if it would benefit him too. Understanding that vindictive streak is crucial information.

Once I have that assessment, I look for natural alliance blocks—players who share interests due to game position or victory point pacing. The key insight here is that these alliances need not be explicit or even acknowledged by the players themselves. Two players who are both three turns away from a potential victory are natural allies against anyone who might score sooner.

With this map of the table in mind, I’ll finally look at the agendas themselves. But rather than asking “what’s best for me?” I’m asking “what agenda creates the most useful voting blocs for my position?” Sometimes an agenda that is only modestly beneficial to you personally but creates strong alliance structures can be far more valuable than one that helps you a lot but unites everyone else against you.

This approach led to what my group still calls “The Great Trade Federation Coup” in a game back in 2014. I was playing as the Federation of Sol (humans), lagging slightly at 6 victory points while the Xxcha Kingdom was sitting at 8. The first agenda I revealed was a law that would give a victory point to whoever controlled Mecatol Rex (the center planet) at game end. I didn’t control Mecatol and had no realistic path to taking it—but neither did the Xxcha. Instead of voting based on my own benefit (which would be to oppose it), I orchestrated a voting bloc of everyone against the one player who might conceivably take Mecatol, effectively removing them as a threat to me. The agenda passed, and the resulting diplomatic chaos as that player sought revenge against others gave me the breathing room to score my final points.

Linda (my ever-strategic wife) has mastered what she calls the “implied threat” approach to politics. Rather than explicitly stating what she’ll do if an agenda fails, she’ll casually mention how close her fleet is to someone’s home system or how many action cards she’s holding. The beauty of this technique is that it creates pressure without forcing anyone to call your bluff. I’ve seen players change their votes based entirely on Linda saying, “Hmm, interesting that your home system only has two PDS units defending it” before a crucial vote.

There’s also immense power in being the agenda setter—which seems obvious, but most players squander it by focusing too much on what they want rather than what’s possible. I’ve taken to maintaining a mental “wish list” for each player at the table, noting what specific benefits they seem to be pursuing. Then, when I have the Politics card, I’ll sometimes deliberately select an agenda that fulfills someone else’s wish rather than my own, but only if I can extract a valuable concession in return.

“I’ll give you what you want, but I need your support on the next agenda sight unseen” is an incredibly powerful negotiation position. The fascinating psychology here is that players value getting something they specifically want far more than preventing you from getting something equivalent. By giving them their wish while securing their support for yours, you often end up with a net advantage.

The cardinal rule of political success in Twilight Imperium is something I call the “natural majority principle”: never try to pass an agenda that doesn’t already have natural support from at least half the table. If you’re trying to convince people to vote against their interests, you’ve already lost. Instead, find the agenda that has organic support and then shape it to your advantage through secondary deals.

Trade goods as bribes seem like an obvious strategy, but I’ve found they’re actually much more effective as enforcement mechanisms than as initial incentives. “I’ll give you two trade goods if you vote for this” is weak. “I’ll give you two trade goods now, but if you don’t vote as promised, I’ll consider it a hostile action” is powerful. The difference is subtle but important—the former is a simple transaction, while the latter establishes an ongoing relationship with consequences.

My buddy Derek, probably the best TI player in our group, uses what he calls the “balanced scales” approach. He’ll never propose an agenda that clearly benefits him without simultaneously offering side deals that create equivalent value for potential opponents. The key is that while the main benefit is visible to everyone, these side deals often happen in hushed conversations around the table. To the casual observer, it might look like Derek got the better end of the agenda, but everyone who voted for it actually received compensation in other forms.

Actions cards and promissory notes dramatically change the political calculus, especially when wielded as political tools rather than tactical ones. I once watched a player use the threat of revealing a “Veto” action card to extract favorable trade terms from three different players in the same political phase—without ever actually playing the card. The mere possibility of intervention created leverage he exploited masterfully.

The timing of when you play Politics is also crucial. Early game Politics phases tend to focus on structural laws that shape the game environment, while late game phases typically involve direct victory point manipulation or targeted attacks on the leader. Understanding this rhythm helps you select the right moment to push your agenda. I’ve deliberately taken Politics in Round 5 instead of Round 6 specifically because I knew players would be less defensive about certain types of agendas one round earlier.

Temperature in the room affects voting patterns too—I’m not joking. We’ve played TI in everything from Jeff’s freezing basement to summer games on my back deck, and I’ve noticed people make more aggressive, risk-taking votes when they’re physically uncomfortable. Hot room? Expect more vindictive voting and less rational cooperation. This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve tracked it across multiple games, and it’s a real factor.

One fascinating psychological technique I’ve employed is what I call “the reluctant beneficiary.” When I know an agenda will help me substantially, I’ll sometimes argue against my own interests initially, expressing concern about its implications. This pre-emptively defuses the natural suspicion others would have about my support. “I’m not sure if this Trade Agreement law really helps me as the Emirates of Hacan—it might actually give some of you too much ability to compete with my trade routes…” Meanwhile, I’m thinking “please pass this amazing law that will completely cement my trade dominance.”

Speaking of psychology, the physical act of how you present agendas matters too. I’ve found that revealing both agendas simultaneously rather than sequentially changes how people vote on the first one. When they can see both options, they make comparative judgments rather than evaluating each agenda on its merits. If one agenda is clearly worse for the table than the other, revealing both at once often helps the “less bad” option pass, even if it would have failed in isolation.

The meta-game of reputation builds across multiple TI sessions too. In our regular group, I’ve deliberately cultivated a reputation for political trustworthiness—I never break explicit voting promises. This doesn’t mean I don’t manipulate or deceive in other ways, but that specific bright line gives others confidence in making deals with me. Linda, meanwhile, has embraced political chaos as her brand. No one knows how she’ll vote, making her the pivotal swing voice in many crucial agendas.

After fifteen years of playing this magnificent game, I’ve come to believe that the Politics phase is where games are truly won and lost. Military engagements might be more dramatic, but a well-played Politics phase can shift the fundamental power balance of the game without a single plastic ship being moved. It’s diplomatic action in its purest form—persuasion, perception, and power all intertwined in a delicate dance.

So the next time you pick up that Politics strategy card, remember: don’t just look at the agendas. Look at the players. Understand what they want, what they fear, and what they believe about the current game state. Find the hidden alignments of interest that already exist at your table, and gently guide them toward outcomes that advance your position. Creating a law that passes isn’t about writing the perfect policy—it’s about understanding the political reality in which that policy will be evaluated.

And if all else fails, you can always resort to Linda’s approach: casually mention how many War Suns you have in production while making direct eye contact with the player who’s on the fence about your proposal. It’s amazing how persuasive that can be.

I still remember the first time I played Under Falling Skies. It was during that weird period in 2020 when our regular gaming group couldn’t meet, and I was desperately seeking solo games that offered real strategic depth. I’d set up the game on our dining room table, and Linda (my wife) walked by, glanced at the colorful dice and spacecraft miniatures, and asked, “Another alien game?” She’s endlessly patient with my board game obsession, but even she raises an eyebrow at the sheer number of games in our collection featuring extraterrestrial threats.

“This one’s different,” I insisted. Two hours later, after my third consecutive defeat—each more spectacular than the last—I had to admit that while the game was indeed different, my approach to it needed serious refinement. Those aliens were kicking my butt, and my haphazard dice placement wasn’t doing Earth any favors.

After 52 plays (yes, I track them in a spreadsheet—my friends find this somewhere between amusing and concerning), I’ve developed dice placement strategies that have transformed my win rate from about 30% to closer to 70%, even against the toughest campaign scenarios. The fundamental insight that changed everything was recognizing that Under Falling Skies isn’t just a tactical puzzle—it’s a series of calculated trade-offs between immediate defensive needs and long-term research progress.

Let’s break down the specific strategies that have proven most effective:

First principle: The Efficiency Curve dictates early game focus. I’ve found that research efficiency increases over time as you upgrade your base, while defense efficiency remains relatively constant. This means early game turns should prioritize defense to buy time, while mid and late game turns can shift toward research.

In my early games, I made the classic mistake of pushing research too aggressively in the opening rounds. This inevitably led to the alien ships advancing too quickly, creating an insurmountable threat before my research could reach critical mass. Now I typically dedicate my first 2-3 turns primarily to defense, using high-value dice to shoot down ships and slow the alien advance, while using my lowest dice for modest research gains.

My friend Tony tried the opposite approach—rushing research while largely ignoring defense—and suffered even worse outcomes than my early attempts. “The best defense is a good offense” might work in some games, but in Under Falling Skies, dead researchers don’t complete their projects.

Second principle: The Rule of Five governs dice selection. When rolling your dice, the combined value of defensive and research potential on the board roughly needs to equal 15 (with five dice averaging 3-4 each). This means that extremely high or low rolls aren’t necessarily good or bad—they just dictate a different strategic approach for the turn.

When I roll exceptionally high (lots of 5s and 6s), I’ve learned to embrace a defense-heavy turn, using those high values to maximum effect by shooting down multiple ships or advancing energy significantly. When I roll exceptionally low (multiple 1s and 2s), I pivot to a research-focused turn, using those low values to advance research without pulling ships down too quickly.

This flexibility—adapting your strategy to your dice rather than hoping for dice that fit your strategy—transformed my gameplay. In a recent campaign scenario, I rolled three 1s in a critical late-game turn. Rather than lamenting my bad luck, I recognized this as an opportunity to make massive research progress with minimal ship advancement. That “unlucky” roll ended up being the turning point that secured my victory.

Third principle: Diagonal Advancement optimizes your base development. The room upgrade system in Under Falling Skies creates interesting dependencies, and I’ve found that a diagonal upgrade pattern generally offers the most efficient path to improved capabilities.

Starting in the top row and working diagonally down allows you to upgrade key systems like energy and fighter bays early while setting up for powerful research combinations in the mid-game. This diagonal approach also typically opens up more robot placement options earlier than a strictly horizontal or vertical upgrade strategy.

In one particularly effective game, I upgraded from the top-left energy room diagonally down to the right, creating a pathway that allowed my robots to generate significant energy while simultaneously advancing research. This diagonal development provided more flexibility than a straight-line approach would have offered.

Fourth principle: The Two-Turn Horizon should guide your immediate decisions. A common mistake is focusing solely on optimizing the current turn without considering how it sets up your next turn. I’ve found that planning two turns ahead—particularly with robot placement and room upgrades—dramatically improves overall efficiency.

This means sometimes accepting a suboptimal current turn to create a more powerful subsequent turn. For instance, placing a robot in a position that doesn’t help much now but will create a powerful synergy after your next upgrade can be far more valuable than maximizing only immediate benefits.

In a recent game, I placed a robot in an apparently useless position during turn three, confusing Linda who was watching the game. “Why put it there? It doesn’t do anything,” she observed. On turn four, after upgrading the adjacent room, that robot’s position unlocked a powerful synergy that allowed me to advance research by two spaces while generating enough energy to shoot down a critical ship. Planning for that two-turn sequence was far more valuable than optimizing either turn individually.

Fifth principle: Dice Placement Order matters enormously. Many new players (including myself initially) place their highest value dice first to secure what seem like the most important actions. This is often exactly backward. By placing lower-value dice first, you gain information about ship movement that informs your higher-value dice placement.

I typically start with my lowest die in research, observe the ship movement, then decide whether my high-value dice are more needed for defense or energy based on the resulting board state. This flexible approach allows for tactical adaptation that placing high dice first would prevent.

In one game, I placed a 2 in research, which pulled down a ship directly over my energy facility. This information was crucial—it meant I needed to use my 6 for shooting rather than energy generation as originally planned. Had I placed the 6 first, I would have generated energy I couldn’t use while allowing a ship to reach a dangerous position.

Beyond these core principles, specific tactical approaches have proven effective for different phases of the game:

In the opening phase (turns 1-3), prioritize fighter bay upgrades if you’re facing numerous small ships, or energy upgrades if facing fewer, larger ships. This targeted approach addresses your most pressing threat first while building toward mid-game research efficiency.

My most consistent early game approach involves upgrading one energy room and one fighter bay in the first two turns, which provides the balanced foundation needed to survive the mid-game while making decent research progress. Attempting to upgrade research rooms too early usually results in insufficient defensive capabilities when ships start accelerating.

For the mid-game phase (turns 4-6), focus on creating at least one highly efficient research path—a sequence of rooms that can generate multiple research points with minimal ship advancement. This often involves robot placement that activates multiple research rooms with a single die.

My friend Jeff demonstrated this brilliantly in a game where he created a vertical robot chain that allowed a single die placement to activate three separate research rooms. This efficiency let him focus his remaining dice on defense while still making substantial research progress.

In the end game (turns 7+), when the mothership approaches and research nears completion, shift to an “all-in” approach on either defense or research, depending on which victory condition seems more achievable. Splitting focus in the final turns usually results in failure on both fronts.

I’ve won most consistently by reaching the final few turns with 2-3 research spaces remaining and enough defensive capability to destroy any ships in critical positions. This balanced approach provides flexibility for the final push based on the specific end-game situation.

Room selection and city choice also dramatically impact optimal dice placement strategies. Some cities favor aggressive research approaches, while others require heavier defensive focus. The Las Vegas city card, with its dice manipulation ability, particularly rewards a different placement strategy that takes advantage of reroll opportunities.

In campaign scenarios, this adaptation becomes even more critical. The Sydney scenario, with its unique harbor mechanisms, completely changes optimal dice placement priorities. I’ve found that standard strategies often fail in campaign scenarios unless adjusted for their specific mechanics.

Let’s talk about some common dice placement mistakes I’ve observed (and made myself):

The most prevalent error is what I call “defensive fixation”—feeling compelled to shoot down every ship that appears. This seemingly cautious approach actually undermines long-term success by preventing sufficient research progress. I’ve learned that allowing some ships to advance while focusing on the most threatening ones creates more efficient turns.

In one game, I intentionally allowed three smaller ships to advance while focusing my defensive efforts on a single large ship that threatened a critical facility. This selective defense preserved high-value dice for research and energy generation while still preventing catastrophic damage.

Another common mistake is “upgrade rushing”—trying to unlock every room as quickly as possible. While upgrades are powerful, the temporary loss of a room’s function during the upgrade process can create dangerous vulnerabilities. Timing upgrades for lower-threat turns has proven far more effective than upgrading at every opportunity.

I once delayed an apparently obvious fighter bay upgrade for two full turns because the current alien ship configuration would have made losing that bay’s function temporarily devastating. When the threat composition changed, I executed the upgrade with minimal defensive risk.

Perhaps the subtlest error is failing to recognize the power of energy generation and storage. Many players (including early-game me) view energy merely as a resource for shooting and upgrades. In reality, banking energy creates tremendous flexibility for future turns, sometimes worth sacrificing immediate actions to achieve.

In a particularly successful game, I dedicated an entire turn to generating and banking energy despite facing moderate ship advancement. This seemed counterintuitive, but that stored energy allowed extraordinary efficiency over the next three turns, ultimately accelerating my research far more than taking immediate actions would have.

The dice placement in Under Falling Skies creates a fascinating tension between deterministic strategy (you control where dice go) and adapting to randomness (you don’t control what you roll). This balance—planning carefully while remaining flexible enough to capitalize on unexpected results—makes each game a unique puzzle.

My most satisfying victory came in a campaign game where I rolled terribly for the first three turns but managed to adapt my strategy to those low values. By focusing on research with my low dice and selectively using even my mid-value dice for defense only when absolutely necessary, I turned apparent bad luck into a strategic advantage. That adaptation—rather than hoping for better rolls—ultimately resulted in victory.

Under Falling Skies exemplifies elegant solo game design, where simple mechanisms create complex decision spaces. Each dice placement decision ripples throughout your turn and future possibilities. The game’s genius lies in how it forces constant reevaluation of priorities while maintaining a clear overall objective.

So the next time you’re facing those ominous alien ships descending toward your base, remember: it’s not about optimizing individual dice placements in isolation. It’s about creating a harmonious strategy that balances immediate defense with long-term research progress, adapts to the resources at hand, and always keeps one eye on setting up powerful future turns. Master these principles, and Earth might just have a fighting chance after all.

The first time I witnessed a truly synergistic team in Zombicide was during what we thought would be a quick game night at Mark’s place back in 2013. Three hours in, we were still alive—thriving, actually—in a scenario that had crushed us twice before. The difference? Instead of everyone picking their favorite character, we’d deliberately constructed a team where each survivor’s abilities enhanced the others. Josh’s Wanda was slicing through zombies with her extra action while Amy’s Doug was finding exactly the equipment we needed and my Phil was keeping everyone supplied with precise sniper support from the watchtower.

That night fundamentally changed how I approach Zombicide. After 100+ games spanning every edition from the original through Black Plague, Invader, 2nd Edition, and all points between, I’ve become slightly obsessed with survivor synergies. The right combination of abilities doesn’t just add value—it multiplies it in ways that can transform seemingly impossible scenarios into manageable challenges.

Now, let me be clear: I’m not talking about just picking objectively strong characters. Any experienced player knows that Josh the Thief or Ann the Sniper are solid choices in isolation. What I’m interested in is how certain ability combinations create emergent strategies that are far more powerful than individual character strengths would suggest.

I’ve organized my approach to team building around what I call “functional cores”—small groups of 2-3 survivors whose abilities create closed loops of efficiency. These cores handle specific game functions (searching, killing, movement) with maximum effectiveness, leaving the remaining team members free to address scenario-specific challenges.

Let’s break down some of the most powerful synergy cores I’ve discovered, with concrete examples:

The Arsenal Engine (Modern Zombicide): This three-person core revolves around weapons acquisition and distribution. Start with Wanda (extra action), add Doug (better search odds), and finish with Phil (marksman). Wanda takes extra search actions, Doug improves the quality of those searches, and Phil makes optimal use of whatever weapons you find. In practice, this creates an equipment pipeline that consistently outputs more firepower than the sum of its parts.

Last month, we tackled that notorious mall scenario from the base game—you know, the one where you need to clear all zombies from an enclosed space with limited entry points. This core team managed to arm everyone with optimal weapons by turn four, something we’d never accomplished previously. Doug found two Sawed-Offs in consecutive searches (thanks to his “Lucky” ability), which Wanda immediately put to use clearing corridors with her extra action, while Phil positioned himself near an exit to handle any incoming zombie waves with his range bonuses.

The Medieval Meat Grinder (Black Plague): Nelly + Baldric + Samson creates what my group calls “the moving kill zone.” Nelly’s free move ability paired with Baldric’s extra combat action and Samson’s strength bonus creates a roaming death squad that can respond to threats anywhere on the board. The key insight is that Nelly’s movement advantage compensates for Samson’s relative slowness, while Baldric provides the action economy to capitalize on good positioning.

The first time we deployed this trio, we completed “The Sewers” scenario with zero casualties—a mission that had previously been our group’s nemesis. Nelly would scout ahead, Baldric would clear the immediate threats, and Samson would handle any Fatty that appeared. The mobility/action/power spread meant we always had the right tool for each situation.

Linda (my terrifyingly efficient wife) actually refined this core by substituting Ann for Baldric when ranged combat is more important than melee. The Ann/Nelly/Samson trio trades some immediate killing power for better threat management at a distance, which proves invaluable in more open maps.

The Information Network (Modern Zombicide): This is a more subtle synergy, but potentially the most powerful in the right scenario. Amy + Doug + Nick creates an information and resource sharing network that dramatically enhances team coordination. Amy’s “Medic” ability keeps everyone alive longer, Doug finds equipment faster, and Nick distributes those finds to whoever needs them most with his “Scavenger” ability.

The brilliance of this combination is that it compensates for bad luck—the silent killer in most Zombicide games. Two weeks ago, we played that prison break scenario where you start with no equipment. This trio managed to arm our entire team by the third activation despite abysmal initial search results, simply because every successful find could immediately be optimized across the team.

For any newer players reading this: don’t underestimate low-drama support synergies like this. Killing zombies feels good, but consistent equipment flow wins scenarios.

The SciFi Fortress (Invader): Magnus + Jennifer + Kim creates what I consider the ultimate defensive core for Invader’s enclosed environments. Magnus establishes and holds chokepoints with his tanking abilities, Jennifer maximizes limited search opportunities with her extra die, and Kim’s engineer skills ensure doors stay shut until you’re ready to open them.

On that mining colony mission with limited oxygen, this trio carried our team to victory by controlling exactly which sections of the map were accessible at any given time. Magnus would hold a corridor against overwhelming numbers, Jennifer would quickly loot each new room we opened, and Kim would seal off areas we’d cleared, creating a steadily expanding safe zone.

What fascinates me about these synergy cores is that they’re often not obvious from just reading character sheets. You have to understand the game’s underlying systems and how different abilities interact with them. Some of the most powerful combinations aren’t about direct zombie killing at all—they’re about manipulating the game’s economy of actions, movement, and resources.

Take the seemingly unimpressive combination of Josh + Amy in the base game. Individually, they’re good but not amazing. Together, though, they form what I call “The Supply Chain.” Josh searches with his free action while moving toward objectives, and Amy ensures that any medical equipment he finds is maximally efficient. This pairing consistently produces more usable items per round than any other two-character combination.

Temperature and comfort actually impact team performance too—I’m not joking. During our summer Zombicide marathon last year (yes, we played for 12 hours straight—judge me all you want), I noticed our decision quality regarding character coordination deteriorated as the room got warmer and everyone got tired. We started making selfish activation choices rather than thinking about ability synergies. Since then, I’ve made a point of explicitly discussing team activation order before each round, especially in longer sessions.

My son Josh (not to be confused with the character) has developed what he calls the “ability wheel” approach to team construction. Rather than thinking in terms of individual characters, he visualizes survivor abilities as connecting points on a wheel. The goal is to create a complete circuit where every major game system (movement, combat, searching, etc.) has at least one specialist, and each specialist has at least one complementary ability from another character.

The most counterintuitive synergy I’ve discovered involves deliberately pairing a very loud character with a stealth-oriented one. In our group’s internal statistics (yes, I track these things), Wanda + Josh has proven remarkably effective despite seeming at odds philosophically. Wanda makes noise and draws zombies, while Josh quietly accomplishes objectives. The key insight is that with proper coordination, Wanda can function as both a damage dealer AND a deliberate distraction, creating safe working space for Josh’s objective running.

The expansion characters offer even more intricate synergy possibilities. When The Angry Neighbors introduced Julien with his “Slippery” ability, we initially underestimated him. Then Derek paired him with Phil and Ned to create what he called “The Assassination Squad”—a team that could rapidly target and eliminate Abominations by using Julien to engage safely, Phil to deal precise damage from range, and Ned to clean up with his extra melee attack.

In Black Plague, the Wolfsburg expansion introduced my all-time favorite synergy pair: Morrigan + Xuxa. Morrigan’s ability to vault over zombies paired with Xuxa’s free ranged attack creates a hit-and-run team that can extract value from even the most zombie-crowded locations. My ongoing joke is that they’re so effective together, it feels like cheating—I actually have to force myself to try other character combinations just to keep things interesting.

One factor many players overlook in team construction is cognitive load management. Some character combinations may be theoretically powerful but require such precise coordination that they fall apart in practice. I learned this lesson the hard way during a convention game where I tried to orchestrate an extremely complex sequence of ability interactions. On paper, it was unbeatable. In practice, with four exhausted players at 11pm, we couldn’t execute it properly and got everyone killed.

Since then, I’ve come to value what I call “low-maintenance synergies”—combinations that create value even when played imperfectly. The Ann + Josh duo exemplifies this philosophy. Their abilities naturally complement each other without requiring explicit coordination. Ann handles distant threats while Josh manages objectives, creating natural spacing that benefits both without needing constant communication.

For newer players looking to explore team synergies, I recommend starting with the classic “Tank and Spank” pairing of any durable character (like Ned or Magnus) with any high-damage dealer (like Wanda or Ann). This creates an intuitive synergy that’s easy to execute—the tank absorbs zombie attention while the damage dealer eliminates threats. It’s Zombicide Teamwork 101, but it remains effective even in the most challenging scenarios.

The most powerful team composition I’ve ever played was actually in Zombicide: Invader, with what my group dubbed “The Untouchable Squad”: Magnus + Kim + Jennifer + Vivian. Magnus controlled space, Kim sealed off routes, Jennifer found equipment, and Vivian’s remote ability let us handle threats without direct engagement. We completed the entire Dark Side campaign without a single character death—the only time we’ve ever managed that feat.

Ultimately, the joy of Zombicide lies in discovering these synergies for yourself. Each game group develops its own meta, its own preferred combinations based on play style and risk tolerance. My approach tends toward efficiency and control, but I’ve played with groups that thrive on high-risk, high-reward character combinations that would give me anxiety hives.

Whatever your preference, I’d encourage you to move beyond simply picking strong individual characters and start thinking about how abilities interact to create emergent strategies. The survivors who seem relatively weak in isolation often prove essential when paired with the right teammates.

After all, surviving a zombie apocalypse isn’t about individual heroics—it’s about finding the right people to stand beside you when the horde arrives. Sometimes that’s the obvious badass with the chainsaw, but often it’s the unassuming guy who happens to be really good at finding extra ammunition exactly when you need it.

The first time I truly understood the drafting dilemma in It’s a Wonderful World, I was three games in and thoroughly confused about my consistently mediocre scores. I’d been prioritizing high-point cards in every draft, building what seemed like an impressive empire filled with monuments and technological marvels. Meanwhile, Linda—who had been snatching up what looked like unexciting resource-generating factories and utilities—was outscoring me by 15+ points regularly. After one particularly lopsided defeat, I finally asked her strategy.

“You’re building a palace without a foundation,” she explained while gathering cards for another round. “I’m building the resource engine first, then the palace.” That simple insight completely transformed my approach to the game. Now, after 40+ plays (I’ve tracked each one in my game journal, much to the amusement of our regular group), I’ve developed what I think is a reasonably sophisticated understanding of the fundamental tension between resource generation and point accumulation that defines successful drafting in It’s a Wonderful World.

My gaming group has a running joke about my “resource spreadsheets,” a good-natured exaggeration of how methodically I now approach card evaluation. “David’s calculating krystallium efficiency again,” Pete will quip whenever I take more than fifteen seconds to make a draft selection. There’s some truth to the ribbing—I have become somewhat notorious for my analytical approach to drafting. But the results speak for themselves. That early pattern of defeats has given way to a much more competitive record that I’m rather proud of, though I’d never admit the precise win percentage for fear of being relentlessly targeted in future games.

The fundamental principle that guides effective drafting in It’s a Wonderful World is what I call “production curve alignment”—ensuring that your resource generation capabilities develop in sync with your construction needs. This might seem obvious in retrospect, but I’ve watched numerous experienced gamers fall into the same trap that initially ensnared me: drafting impressive-looking developments without sufficient resource infrastructure to efficiently build them. The result is inevitably a tableau filled with half-completed projects that generate neither resources nor points.

This principle of production alignment crystallized for me during a game where I’d drafted what seemed like a balanced mixture of resource-generating and point-producing cards. As the rounds progressed, I realized that while I had reasonable production across most resource types, my specific construction needs required concentrated production in materials and energy that my tableau couldn’t provide. Despite generating plenty of total resources, their distribution didn’t match my construction requirements, leading to numerous uncompleted developments. That painful experience taught me that resource diversity matters far less than targeted production aligned with specific building plans.

Early-round drafting establishes the foundation for your empire’s development and deserves more careful consideration than many players give it. Those initial selections disproportionately impact your production trajectory, with first-round resource generators potentially contributing materials for three or four consecutive rounds. I’ve found that successful players typically prioritize targeted resource production in the opening round, only selecting point-generating cards when they offer exceptional efficiency or synergize directly with an emerging strategy.

I remember watching Steve’s approach evolve over several months of regular play. Initially, he gravitated toward cards with impressive point values regardless of resource requirements. Over time, he developed a much more disciplined first-round approach, focusing almost exclusively on establishing production in 2-3 core resource types. His results improved dramatically with this more focused approach, demonstrating the value of prioritizing production foundations over immediate point potential in early rounds.

The drafting approach necessarily evolves across the four rounds, with resource and point priorities shifting as the game progresses. First-round drafting typically emphasizes production establishment, second-round balances production enhancement with initial point opportunities, third-round transitions toward point generation while filling production gaps, and fourth-round focuses almost exclusively on immediate scoring potential. Understanding this natural progression helps frame each round’s drafting decisions within appropriate strategic contexts.

This round-specific approach became particularly clear during a tournament setting (yes, I occasionally play It’s a Wonderful World competitively, which Linda finds endlessly amusing). Against skilled opponents, I noticed that nearly everyone followed a similar drafting pattern: first round almost entirely production-focused, second round roughly 70/30 split between production enhancement and initial point cards, third round shifting to a 40/60 split favoring point opportunities, and final round almost exclusively focused on immediately completable scoring cards. This consistent pattern across experienced players highlighted the natural strategic evolution that the game’s structure encourages.

The specific resource types present different strategic considerations for drafting prioritization. Materials and energy form the foundation of most construction requirements, making early production in these resources particularly valuable. Science and exploration typically support more specialized strategies, while krystallium’s universal application makes it valuable in almost any approach. I’ve found that successful empires typically establish strong production in at least two of the basic resources while maintaining at least minimal generation in a third, rather than attempting to diversify across all five types.

During a particularly successful game, I focused almost exclusively on materials and energy production in the first two rounds, deliberately passing on cards requiring other resources regardless of their point potential. This specialized approach allowed me to complete several high-value developments in subsequent rounds without the inefficiency of recycling or conversion. The focused resource strategy generated nearly 20 points more than my typical balanced approach, demonstrating how targeted production often outperforms diversification despite seeming less flexible.

The card recycling and character abilities create important strategic considerations for drafting. The ability to convert unwanted cards into specific resources through recycling means that even cards you don’t intend to build can provide strategic value if they convert to resources you need. Similarly, character abilities that enhance certain resource types or provide special conversion opportunities should inform your drafting priorities, sometimes making otherwise mediocre cards substantially more valuable within your specific empire.

My colleague Rachel, who approaches games with remarkable strategic clarity, developed what she calls “contextual valuation”—a framework for card evaluation that considers not just the card’s inherent properties but how it interacts with your character ability and recycling needs. This approach sometimes leads to counterintuitive draft selections, like taking cards with suboptimal point-to-resource ratios because they recycle into particularly needed resources, or prioritizing developments that might seem inefficient but synergize perfectly with character abilities. This contextual awareness adds a layer of sophistication to drafting decisions that goes beyond simple resource or point calculations.

The changing value of cards across different rounds creates fascinating temporal considerations for drafting. A card that provides materials production might be invaluable if drafted in round one but nearly worthless by round four. Conversely, a high-cost, high-point development might be undraftable in early rounds but become the perfect selection in the final round if you’ve established the production to complete it immediately. Understanding these temporal value shifts helps identify when particular cards reach their maximum utility within the arc of a given game.

This temporal sensitivity became apparent during a game where I passed on a 6-point development in round one, knowing I couldn’t possibly complete it in time for it to generate meaningful resources. When the same card appeared in my round three draft options, I snatched it immediately, as my production engine had developed sufficiently to complete it before game end. The identical card had transformed from a liability to an asset purely due to the temporal context of when it appeared. This experience highlighted how draft valuations must consider not just what a card does but when in the game’s progression it will become active.

The tension between immediate resource needs and long-term strategic development creates one of It’s a Wonderful World’s most interesting drafting dilemmas. Sometimes the theoretically “best” card for your long-term strategy requires resources you don’t currently generate, creating a choice between immediate efficiency and future potential. I’ve found that successful players typically favor immediate constructability in the first two rounds, only drafting resource-misaligned cards in later rounds when their production engines have developed enough flexibility to pivot toward new resource types.

During a game where I’d established strong materials and energy production, I faced a third-round choice between a science-dependent development with exceptional point efficiency and a slightly less efficient card that utilized my existing production types. Rather than pivoting to science production to enable the seemingly superior card, I selected the option that aligned with my established engine. This constructability prioritization allowed me to complete the development immediately, generating points and resources a full round earlier than had I attempted to shift production focus. The lesson was clear—a less impressive card that you can actually build generally outperforms a perfect card that remains under construction when the game ends.

The draft direction alternation between rounds creates interesting strategic considerations for hate-drafting and anticipating opponents’ needs. In rounds where you’ll receive cards passed from a particular neighbor, their obvious strategy might influence which cards you prioritize or which you’re willing to pass. This positional awareness becomes particularly important in the final round, where denying key completable developments to opponents can be as valuable as selecting optimal cards for yourself.

This directional awareness became a crucial element of strategy during games with our regular Friday group, where we all developed reasonably predictable drafting patterns over time. I noticed that Pete, who typically sat to my left, almost always prioritized exploration-based strategies. In rounds where I passed cards to him, I began making conscious decisions to hate-draft exploration-generating cards even when they didn’t fit my strategy, specifically to disrupt his production engine. This positional drafting sometimes meant taking subjectively “worse” cards for my own tableau but created enough disruption to his strategy to justify the opportunity cost.

The limited number of development slots (10) creates another strategic constraint that should inform drafting decisions. By the later rounds, these slots become precious real estate, making opportunity cost a crucial consideration. I’ve found that successful players become increasingly selective about development efficiency as the game progresses, sometimes passing on objectively valuable cards simply because they cannot justify dedicating a limited slot to them compared to other opportunities.

This slot awareness emerged as a crucial strategic element during a game where I entered the fourth round with only two open development spaces remaining. Despite seeing several valuable point-generating cards in the draft, I specifically selected options that I could complete within the round, rather than potentially higher-point developments that would remain unfinished. This slot efficiency focus meant passing on cards that might have seemed obviously superior in isolation but would have ultimately contributed nothing given my construction constraints. The resulting 10-point swing compared to my theoretical “optimal” draft demonstrated how slot limitations must factor into draft valuations, particularly in the later rounds.

The empire typing and synergy bonuses create another layer of strategic consideration for drafting. While the base game offers relatively modest synergy opportunities, the expansion materials introduce more significant rewards for building cohesive empires of specific types. These synergy potentials should inform draft prioritization, sometimes making otherwise mediocre cards valuable specifically for their contribution to empire coherence.

During a game with the expansion materials, I noticed early drafting had given me several financial developments. Rather than pursuing my typical balanced approach, I pivoted to specifically prioritize additional financial cards in subsequent rounds, even when they offered slightly less efficient point-to-resource ratios than alternatives. The resulting synergy bonuses more than compensated for the individual card inefficiencies, creating a specialized empire that outperformed what would have been possible with my usual diversified approach. This experience highlighted how draft priorities should adapt to emerging synergy potential rather than adhering to fixed valuation frameworks.

After all these games and all this analysis, perhaps the most important insight I’ve gained about drafting in It’s a Wonderful World is that the balance between resource generation and point accumulation isn’t a fixed formula but a dynamic equilibrium that shifts with each passing round. The players who consistently succeed aren’t those who rigidly prioritize either resources or points, but those who understand how this balance evolves throughout the game’s progression and adapt their draft priorities to align with their empire’s current development stage.

I still occasionally miscalculate resource needs or select developments that prove impossible to complete efficiently. But those mistakes have become rarer as I’ve developed a more intuitive understanding of how resource curves and construction requirements interact to create successful empires. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a well-constructed production engine click into perfect operation, transforming a carefully curated collection of cards into a coherent empire that generates both resources and points with remarkable efficiency.

And really, isn’t that coherent system-building what makes It’s a Wonderful World so fascinating? The tension between immediate needs and long-term planning creates decisions unlike any other drafting game in my collection. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go convince Linda that we absolutely need to play “just one more quick game” before bed. I have a theory about krystallium conversion efficiency that I’m dying to test.

I first played Wingspan at Origins 2019, standing at the Stonemaier booth while the conventions swirled around me. Fifteen minutes in, I wasn’t just playing a game – I was constructing this intricate machine of feathers and abilities that kept generating more and more resources. By the time my demo ended, I’d already mentally cleared shelf space at home. Later that night at dinner, I couldn’t stop talking about how the bird powers had created this unexpected chain reaction that felt almost magical. Poor Linda nodded politely through her pasta, having long ago accepted that this particular brand of board game enthusiasm was part of the package deal of marriage to me.

Here’s the thing about Wingspan that continues to fascinate me after 87 plays (yes, I keep count – it’s a sickness): it’s not just a set collection game about birds. It’s a puzzle of constructing the perfect economic engine from seemingly disparate parts. And at the heart of this puzzle are the bird power combinations that, when aligned correctly, create cascading activations that can generate absolutely ridiculous amounts of resources and points.

I’m not talking about just playing good birds. I’m talking about creating symphonies of abilities that trigger each other in perfect sequence. After testing countless configurations across dozens of games, I’ve identified several “power trees” that consistently generate outsized returns. The game rewards this kind of deliberate construction in a way that feels deeply satisfying – like watching a Rube Goldberg machine you’ve carefully assembled run perfectly.

The most basic concept to understand is the difference between “when played” powers and ongoing powers. “When played” powers give you an immediate benefit but don’t contribute to your engine. They’re like a sugar rush – helpful in the moment but not sustaining. The ongoing powers – particularly the brown “activated” powers – are where the real engine-building happens. These are the gears and levers of your machine.

Let me tell you about a game from last month that perfectly illustrates this. I’d drawn a Common Raven early, which lets you cache food on it when activated. Decent start, nothing special. Then I drew a Chihuahuan Raven with the same ability. Still nothing revolutionary. But then came the California Condor, which gives you a point for each food on all ravens and other carrion birds. And finally, I added an American Kestrel, which activated when my predator birds did.

See what happened there? Every time I activated my forest row to gain food, I could trigger the ravens to store food, which would score points via the Condor, which would then let the Kestrel activate. One simple action was now generating food, points, and additional activations. By the end of the game, that single forest activation was worth about 7 resources/points. My friends now refuse to let me draft ravens without a fight.

This illustrates what I call “activation chains” – birds that trigger other birds in sequence. The most powerful chains generally start with birds that have brown powers in one habitat, which then activate birds with “activated” powers in other habitats. The classic example is the forest-to-grassland chain, where birds like the Franklin’s Gull or Killdeer activate when you gain food, essentially giving you free egg-laying when foraging.

Speaking of eggs, nesting strategies might seem obvious, but there’s subtlety to constructing the perfect laying engine. Birds like the Yellow-Rumped Warbler let you lay eggs when other birds lay eggs – which creates a fascinating compound effect. In one memorable game, I created what my group now calls “the egg factory” – a grassland row where a single “lay eggs” action resulted in 9 eggs spread across different birds. The exponential growth was beautiful to witness.

The wetlands row is typically focused on card draw, and this is where some of the most broken combinations emerge. The Cedar Waxwing, which lets you draw a card when you cache food, paired with food-caching birds creates a powerful draw engine. Add in the Barn Swallow (draw a card when another player draws) as defense against opponents with similar strategies, and suddenly you’re cycling through a significant portion of the deck.

Food generation requires careful planning but offers tremendous returns. Birds like the White-Faced Ibis, which gives food when wetland birds are played, paired with cheap wetland birds creates a food surplus that can fund expensive bird costs. My personal record is generating 14 food in a single round through carefully constructed activation sequences – significantly more than the meager pickings from the standard food dice.

The tucking mechanic offers perhaps the most direct path to big points. The Mississippi Kite, which tucks cards for points when predators are played, combined with small, cheap predator birds creates a tucking engine that can easily generate 20+ points. In one particularly ridiculous game, I had three tucking birds that fed each other in a loop, resulting in 19 tucked cards (38 points) from just a few activations.

Let’s talk about defense too, because bird combos aren’t just about building your own engine – they’re about disrupting your opponents’. Birds with defensive powers, like the Brown-Headed Cowbird (steal eggs when opponents lay eggs) or the Bushtit (gain food when others gain food) allow you to piggyback on opponents’ engines. Positioning these correctly can mitigate the advantage of a player who’s constructed a powerful combo.

The European Expansion adds new types of powers, including end-of-round abilities that can be devastating when combined properly. My favorite discovery was pairing the Eurasian Golden Plover (gain food when round ends with fewer than 5 eggs in grassland) with birds that move eggs around. This created a perpetual food engine that required minimal maintenance.

Temperature is another critical factor in combo construction. Because powers activate from right to left, the “temperature” of your row – how far to the right you’ve built up birds – determines how many powers trigger with each activation. A common mistake I see is playing birds with powerful activated abilities too far left, where they won’t be included in many activations. The right temperature creates maximum activation density.

Of course, the randomness of the card draw means you can’t always assemble your ideal engine. This is where flexibility becomes crucial. I’ve seen players stubbornly pursue a tucking strategy despite never drawing the key birds, while ignoring perfectly good food-generation combos available to them. The best Wingspan players I know maintain multiple potential combo paths in the early game, only committing once a critical mass of complementary birds appears.

Actually, a funny story about that – in our Christmas game last year, my brother-in-law Mike was determined to build a wetland drawing engine because it had worked for him in the previous game. Three rounds in, he had exactly one wetland bird while ignoring perfectly good forest combos. His final score was… well, let’s just say we don’t bring it up unless we want to watch his face turn interesting colors.

The player mat actions form the backbone of your turn choices, but the real art is in creating bird combinations that give you those same actions for free. When your birds are laying eggs, drawing cards, and gaining food without spending the limited actions on your player mat, you’re essentially playing with more turns than your opponents. That’s the secret to consistently winning Wingspan – not just playing good birds, but creating good birds that play well together.

After hundreds of combinations tested, I’ve found that the most reliable benchmark of a strong engine is achieving at least 1.5 resources (counting cards, food, and eggs each as 1 resource) per single action by the mid-game. If your activations aren’t generating bonus resources at that rate, your engine probably needs recalibration.

The beauty of Wingspan’s design is that these combinations aren’t obvious from reading the cards – they emerge through play and experimentation. Each game feels like a unique puzzle because the available birds (and therefore potential engines) change dramatically. No matter how many times I play, there’s always some new interaction to discover, some new sequence that makes me say, “Wait, I never thought of combining those!”

I’ve kept detailed notes on bird combinations and performance across those 87 games, and what continues to impress me is how the game rewards creativity over formulaic approaches. Yes, there are reliable combinations, but the player who can spot unusual synergies among the available birds usually outperforms the player trying to force a pre-planned strategy.

So next time you play, look beyond the individual bird powers and start thinking about how they can trigger each other. Listen for the rhythm of your engine – the sequence of activations that cascade across your habitats. With practice, you’ll develop an ear for which combinations create beautiful music and which produce just noise. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll create an engine so impressive that even your spouse will briefly look up from their pasta with genuine interest – or at least convincing feigned interest, which after 22 years of marriage might be the greatest victory of all.

I still remember the exact moment I realized I’d been playing Underwater Cities all wrong. It was game night at Carl’s place, and after several plays where I’d focused entirely on grabbing the “best” actions regardless of card colors, I watched in bewilderment as Miguel thoroughly destroyed us all. His score nearly doubled mine, and the reason was painfully obvious in retrospect – he’d built his entire strategy around color matching.

“You can’t just take good actions,” he explained after seeing my confused expression. “You need to take good actions that match your cards.” Such a simple insight, yet it completely transformed how I approached the game. Underwater Cities presents a fascinating strategic puzzle through its core mechanism: you place a worker to select an action, then play a card from your hand.

If the card color matches the action space color, you get both the action effect and the card effect. If they don’t match, you only get one or the other. This color-matching constraint creates a constant tension that shapes every decision throughout the game.

After about forty plays across various player counts and expansion content, I’ve come to see this color-matching constraint not as a limitation but as the central strategic puzzle that gives the game its depth. Managing this constraint effectively requires balancing immediate needs against future possibilities, creating a decision space that remains engaging even after dozens of plays. The most important realization for improving your Underwater Cities play is that the value of matching effects vastly outweighs the value of individual actions or cards in isolation.

A mediocre action paired with a matching mediocre card often delivers more value than a strong action without a match. This multiplicative relationship means you should evaluate potential plays based on their combined impact rather than selecting the seemingly strongest individual components. My typical approach to hand management now revolves around identifying potential color matches first, then evaluating which of those matches would provide the most immediate benefit to my current board state.

This represents a complete reversal from my early games, where I would identify my most pressing need and then hunt for the appropriate action, regardless of matching potential. The timing of when to prioritize matching over action value creates another interesting decision point. In early rounds, I’ve found that securing key matching plays for economy-building actions generally outweighs grabbing high-value non-matching actions.

The compounding benefits of early resource generation through matched plays typically outpaces the immediate advantages of strong non-matching plays. Linda (my wife and fiercest Underwater Cities competitor) beautifully demonstrated this principle in our last game. While I grabbed several powerful non-matching building actions in the first epoch, she consistently took slightly weaker actions that matched her card colors.

By mid-game, her economy was humming along at nearly twice my production rate, creating an advantage I never managed to overcome. The distribution of action space colors on the board creates another strategic consideration. Green and yellow spaces are more plentiful than red ones, making those colors generally more flexible for matching purposes.

This distribution suggests that red cards should be evaluated more critically, as your opportunities to match them will be more limited and competitive. I’ve developed what Miguel mockingly calls my “color opportunity cost calculation” – mentally tracking the current value of each color based on available action spaces, cards in hand, and remaining workers. This ongoing evaluation helps prioritize when to focus on matching and when to prioritize specific high-value actions regardless of matching potential.

The expansion of available actions in later rounds creates another interesting dynamic in the matching constraint. As additional action spaces open up, the opportunity cost of taking non-matching actions decreases. This sometimes justifies pivoting from a strict matching focus in early rounds to a more opportunistic approach in later epochs, where specific high-value actions might outweigh matching considerations.

My breakthrough game came when I stopped viewing the color matching as my primary goal and instead saw it as a constraint to be managed within a broader strategic framework. This shift in perspective led to more nuanced decision-making where I would intentionally take non-matching actions when the individual action value sufficiently outweighed the lost matching opportunity. Card drafting adds another layer to this puzzle.

When selecting cards during the drafting phase, the tendency for new players is to simply take the “best” cards in isolation. More experienced players evaluate cards partially based on their color’s matching potential with actions they’re likely to need in upcoming rounds. I now find myself regularly taking objectively weaker cards simply because their color creates more valuable matching opportunities with actions central to my strategy.

The asymmetric starting conditions from metropolis tiles create unique considerations for color matching priorities. Your initial metropolis often suggests strategic directions that pair more naturally with certain action types, which should influence your card selection and matching priorities from the earliest rounds. Recognizing and adapting to these starting asymmetries separates experienced players from novices who apply one-size-fits-all approaches to the matching constraint.

Beth demonstrated this beautifully in a recent game where her starting metropolis provided significant benefits for kelp production. Rather than applying a generic strategy, she immediately prioritized green cards and actions, creating powerful matching plays that leveraged her starting advantage. By mid-game, her kelp engine was generating resources at a rate none of us could match.

Player count significantly impacts optimal approaches to the color matching constraint. In two-player games, competition for specific action spaces is less intense, allowing more focus on creating optimal matches. With four players, key action spaces become hotly contested, sometimes forcing you to take suboptimal matches or forego matching entirely to secure critical actions before opponents.

I learned this lesson through painful experience in our first four-player game. My carefully planned matching strategy collapsed when Ryan repeatedly claimed action spaces I’d been counting on, forcing me into less efficient plays. Adapting to this higher competition requires more flexibility in matching priorities and greater emphasis on alternative paths when preferred matches become unavailable.

The temporal rhythm of Underwater Cities creates interesting considerations for the matching constraint. In early rounds, production actions typically provide greater long-term value, making matches with these actions particularly powerful. Mid-game shifts toward expansions and connections, while late-game often emphasizes special cards and final scoring optimizations.

Your matching priorities should evolve alongside this shifting focus, rather than remaining static throughout. Carl’s approach exemplifies this temporal awareness. He aggressively pursues matching production actions in the first epoch, transitions to matching building and expansion actions in the second, and focuses on matching special card and final scoring actions in the third.

This evolving approach to the matching constraint consistently yields stronger results than rigid strategies that maintain the same matching priorities throughout the game. Card management and hand cycling create another dimension to the matching puzzle. Since your matching options are constrained by the cards in hand, the ability to cycle through cards quickly can dramatically increase your matching potential.

Actions and effects that allow additional card draws or plays can create powerful combo opportunities that transcend the normal limitations of the matching constraint. My most successful games have featured what my group calls “cycling synergy” – combinations of effects that allow me to rapidly move through cards, dramatically increasing the likelihood of having appropriate colors for valuable matches. This approach requires some initial investment in card-drawing capabilities but typically pays substantial dividends through improved matching efficiency throughout the game.

Special cards that provide ongoing effects introduce another consideration to the matching equation. These cards often provide benefits that compound over multiple rounds, making their successful deployment through matching particularly valuable. I’ve found that securing matches for these high-impact special cards frequently justifies taking otherwise suboptimal action spaces, as their long-term value outweighs the immediate efficiency loss.

Ryan has mastered what he calls “special card prioritization” – identifying high-impact special cards early and structuring his entire action selection approach around successfully deploying them through color matches. This sometimes means accepting short-term inefficiencies to secure the long-term advantages these cards provide when successfully matched. The balance between specialization and diversification creates another interesting tension in managing the matching constraint.

Specializing in particular colors can increase your matching consistency but may limit your strategic flexibility. Diversifying gives you more options but potentially reduces your matching efficiency. Finding the right balance between these approaches based on the specific game state represents one of Underwater Cities’ most interesting strategic puzzles.

After dozens of plays, I’ve found that moderate specialization – focusing primarily on two colors with some flexibility in the third – typically provides the best balance. This approach maintains reasonable matching consistency while preserving sufficient strategic adaptability to respond to changing game states and opponent actions. The interaction between the matching constraint and the asymmetric production benefits of different underwater city locations creates yet another strategic dimension.

Certain city locations naturally pair better with specific action types, suggesting color priorities that align with your developing board position. As your city expands, your optimal matching priorities may shift to leverage these location-specific benefits. Miguel exemplifies this awareness of board position in his matching priorities.

He carefully evaluates how each potential city expansion would interact with his card color distribution, sometimes accepting suboptimal immediate placements to create more valuable matching opportunities in subsequent rounds. This integration of spatial planning with color matching consistently produces impressive results. After exploring all these considerations across dozens of games, I’ve concluded that mastering Underwater Cities’ action selection under the color matching constraint isn’t about adhering to fixed priorities but developing dynamic evaluation skills that balance immediate needs, long-term strategy, and adaptive response to changing game states.

The matching mechanism creates a constantly evolving puzzle where the value of each potential play depends entirely on the surrounding context. This depth, hidden beneath the game’s relatively straightforward rules, explains why it remains one of our most-played titles years after purchase. Each game presents a unique optimization puzzle with its own solution, rewarding repeated play without becoming formulaic.

And yes, I still occasionally get trounced by Miguel’s seemingly effortless matching efficiency. But the gap has narrowed considerably since that first humbling experience, and these days I occasionally manage to edge out victories through careful management of the color matching constraint that once seemed so restrictive. In Underwater Cities, as in most great games, the limitations aren’t obstacles to enjoyment – they’re the very puzzle that makes the experience worthwhile.