My family was one of solidarity when it came to gaming. All too often someone might express uncertainty during a game, and then the pieces or whatever secrets lurked in hand or beyond the game’s screening mechanism would be revealed. Many times, Scrabble found us staring at a person’s tiles to unearth the best move. Takebacks in chess arose whenever a blunder would ruin a game. The desire to not have oversight provoke a loss, or win, served as a norm.
However, this sense of community does not pervade the competitive scene. Exceptions arise, and I’m pleased that the folk who populate tables at which I find myself tend to lean toward communication and forgiveness rather than hardlines geared toward victory, though winning does remain the goal of many a soul, myself included.
Though, competitive games tend to not encourage openness. Instead, you generally turn to cooperative games, which often thrive from open dialogue. Frustrating, though, how words can destroy an experience, should a person-turned-megaphone dominate the experience. Anyone who has played cooperative games with a wide mix of people has at least once witnessed a tyrant emerge to dictate actions, transforming what should have been a communal experience to a solo game with everyone else as barnacles affixed to the dominator, along for the ride. Or, the converse undesirable fate develops where the group falls prey to consensus-driven actions, with bad options being promoted in that they receive more consideration than warranted, with the risk that the group will accept a poor decision rather than be seen to dismiss another person’s preference. Because the lizard-person in each of us might become exasperated, declaring: “humans” in response to the frustration that, well, humans invoke, designs to prevent verbalized solidarity proliferate in the cooperative gaming space.
Can’t we have competitive games that inspire dialogue and cooperation, yet need not be a cooperative game? Is there a means to retain one’s autonomy, pushing against the games that silence or heavily restrict communication, while maintaining the conflict inherent in competitive games? The answer is yes. Pair the players; marry the two.
It’s not an uncommon idea. Some bedrock card games—such, as Spades, Bridge, among others—arise from this conceit, thus most people who game know of, and have experienced, such fare. However, it’s not a common aspect of games in terms of the board gaming community who are likely to visit a site like BGG.com, and what such players tend to play are either games like Battlestar Galactica or The Resistance—where traitors oftentimes exist—or social, often word-based, games such as Codenames or Decrypto. However, it’s somewhat rare to have teammates, know who the “enemies” are, and not be within the realm of a party game.
Such games do exist, but they surely represent a sliver of the universe, and not many of them excel at the convention. However, and here’s where we get to the focus of this review, Guards of Atlantis II has become my go-to teammates board game experience. It provides a 2v2 – 5v5 adventure that fosters cooperation as well as transparency within a conflict-infused landscape.
I love that you’re not in it all alone. You’re not one against many. Rather, you band together with others, scheming—openly. Solidarity. You work together, trying to make the most of your asymmetric characters while tackling those of the opposition. Thus, Guards of Atlantis II lets me discuss strategies openly with friends, for that’s the requirement. After cards get played and actions accrue, sometimes we share perspectives with the other team, for the open nature of the interactions encourages debriefing each other as to why each player did what they did or didn’t do what you had anticipated. There’s a generally communal feel even though 50% of the table serves as your enemy.
All communication must be open; no whispering or absconding to another room to scheme. No sneak peeks at cards. While within its embrace, you live in a realm devoid of conspiracy. If you want to convey info, then everyone gets in on the action. You care what every other player is doing, at least that’s the way the single-lane map goes, where everyone is essentially piled atop each other, sniping opportunities within the interstices of opportunity. More than once I’ve spoken with a teammate as one or more players on the other team listen to the conversation, trying to divine their best options based on what we’ve shared. On the double-lane map, teams get split into mini-teams, which can crossover, thus your focus narrows more to those who are where your hero is, though you keep a pulse on the other primary region for opportunities to assist or to summon an ally to your aid.
Then, once the action begins a shroud of silence descends. No spoken words sound beyond the banal. You may read cards aloud, share a preference as to who acts first should you tie in initiate (i.e., turn order) with a teammate, and the like. Yet, thoughts churn within every spectator awaiting their moment to become actor. I often find myself reciting a mantra as I try to force my will upon my teammate to get them to do, or not do, a given something. I say in my mind, “read my card, read my card, read my mind” hoping they’ll realize not to block a given spot on the board, to attack, or not to attack a certain minion or hero. It’s tense. It’s exciting. It’s a beautiful system.
I wish that I were at a table with friends. Guards of Atlantis II, it’s present too – a friend amongst many. I imagine something akin to Waiting for Godot where Godot is whatever happens post Guards. An unknown existence for we cycle game state into game state, an eternal set of experiences, one after another, reminiscent of one’s beating heart. For whenever a game concludes, the hope arises that another person will say, “again?” Or, even better, that we sync ourselves in that as soon as a winner emerges people gravitate into new teams, grabbing new characters, and we discover ourselves looped into game after game as the stars rise and fall, evidence of meals accumulates in the compost and sink, alongside an ever-increasingly depleted pantry and fridge. For, the game becomes a “forward experience” as it ensues. As if its presence equates to continuance, reminiscent, perhaps, of the occasional death trap in the form of a chess game where you’re the king alongside human-size pieces, with checkmate being your savior or your demise. There is the game, nothing else.
Hyperbole, sure, but behind every jest lies a kernel of truth, and from the center springs forth possibility. Yet, I digress, for life is Guards of Atlantis, and more breathes of this opus of gaming I must intake. Ahem, let me recenter this writeup and speak now of possibility.
Of the approximately fifteen games in which I’ve participated, only one of these felt like a blowout, and it ended quickly. New players, not aware of the strategy found themselves on the wrong side of the push whereas my team was in place to cause a double push following the end of the next round. It was decisive. Were you to turn the romp into a clap, it’d be resounding. You’d think it was a gong played within a chasm. There would be an echo. Excluding this outlier, it’s invariably been tense, with either team able to envision a path toward besting their foes, and on a handful of occasions despite being behind the team with a questionable fate managed to secure the win. We have not witnessed situations where you know you are doomed yet have no hope to secure salvation. The one tragedy that I mentioned above ended swiftly. It was a mortal wound, delivered quickly, with mercy. If we had been at a dinner table, you might have heard, “please pass the defeat,” in lieu of the salt, and the entire ordeal passed as swiftly as the scenario I have just described.
All to say, I’m enamored by the game. I look for angles that might get it to the table. Recruiting new souls who might also adore it has become my goal. I may not proselytize religion, yet I will proclaim the joy that this game brings. Sing it loud, sing it proud, sing it and then sing it some more. Glory be to those who sit at the Guards of Atlantis II table.
It invades my life beyond time spent alongside cardboard. I learned to code in SwiftUI so that I could make an app that contains photos of the cards, so that I can look at characters lovingly, and learn of them while not playing. I added in FAQ materials for each, as well as the iconography provided for each character, with explanations of what the icons means. I tinker on the app near daily, adding little flourishes. It’s my time with the game when not playing it. I painted the figures. I would buy the figures again to paint them again. Alternates, if you will.
What I’m saying is that this game is wonderful. I recommend that you all find a way to play it. If you’re in Seattle, WE CAN PLAY IT TOGETHER.