→ November 19, 2021
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Infinite Powers.

I’m a sucker for a good book about math, but a lot of books about math aren’t that good – either they’re dry, or they don’t do enough to explain why any of this matters. (Sometimes it doesn’t matter, as in Prime Obsession, but the author did such a good job of explaining the problem, and benefited from the fact that it’s still unsolved.) Steven Strogatz’s Infinite Powers: How Calculus Reveals the Secrets of the Universe manages to be entertaining, practical, and also educational, as the author builds up the reader through some essentials of pre-calculus before getting into the good stuff, to the point that I recommended that my daughter check it out before next year when she takes calculus in school.

Calculus underlies everything in the universe; it is the foundation upon which the universe, and everything in it, functions. It is also one of humanity’s most remarkable discoveries, one that required multiple leaps of mathematical faith to uncover hidden truths about the universe. Physicist Richard Feynman quipped that it is “the language that God talks,” although he meant it in a secular sense, while mathematician Felix Klein said that one could not understand “the basis on which the scientific explanation of nature rests” without at least some understanding of differential and integral calculus.

 The story of how both Isaac Newton and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz simultaneously discovered calculus in the late 1600s, doing so both with their own remarkable insights and by building on the discoveries of mathematicians before them, going back to the ancient Greeks, would by itself be enough for an entertaining history. Strogatz does start with that, and uses the history as scaffolding to bring the reader up from algebra through geometry and trigonometry to the mathematics of limits, which is the essential precursor to calculus, before getting to the main event.

Or I should say “events,” as differential and integral calculus, while two sides of the same analytical coin, were discovered at separate times, with separate methods, and Strogatz tells their stories separately before bringing them together towards the end of the book. Differential calculus is what we learn first in schools, at least in the United States. It’s the mathematics of the rates of change; the rate at which a function changes is the derivative of that function. Acceleration is the derivative of velocity – that is, the rate at which velocity is changing. Velocity, in turn, is the derivative of position – the rate at which an object’s position changes. That also makes acceleration the second derivative of position, which is why you see a 2 in the formula for the acceleration of an object falling due to Earth’s gravity (9.8 m/s2): a position might be measured in meters, so velocity is measured as the change in position (meters) by time (seconds), and acceleration is the change in velocity (meters per second) by time (seconds, again).

Integral calculus goes the other way – given an object’s acceleration, what is its velocity at a given point in time? Given its velocity, what is its position? But Leibniz and Newton – I expect to hear from Newton’s lawyers for listing him second – conceived of integration as a way to solve an entirely different problem: How to determine the area under a curved function. Those two didn’t think of it that way – the concept of a function came somewhat later – but they understood the need to find out the area underneath a curve, and came up, independently, with the same solution, which broke apart the space into a series of rectangles of known heights and near-zero widths, giving rise to the infinitesimals familiar to any student who’s taken integral calculus. They aren’t real numbers, although they do appear in more arcane number systems like the hyperreals, yet the sum of the areas of this infinitesimally narrow rectangles turns out to be a real number, giving you the area under the curve in question. This insight, which was probably Leibniz’s first, opened the world up for integral calculus, which turns out to have no end of important applications in physics, biology, and beyond.

Strogatz grounds the book in those applications, devoting the last quarter or so of Infinite Powers to discussing the modern ways in which we depend on calculus, even taking its existence for granted. GPS devices are the most obvious way, as the system wouldn’t function without the precision that calculus, which GPS uses for dealing with errors in the measurements of distances, offers – indeed, it’s also used to help planes land accurately. Yet calculus appears in even less-expected places; biologists used it to model the shape of the double helix of strands of DNA, treating a discrete object (DNA is just a series of connected molecules) as a continuous one. If your high school student ever asks why they need to learn this stuff, Infinite Powers has the answers, but also gives the reader the background to understand the author’s explanations even if you haven’t taken math in a few decades.

Next up: David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

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→ November 16, 2021
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Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me).

Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me) is the story of cognitive dissonance, from its origins in the 1950s – one of the authors worked with Dr. Leon Festinger, the man who coined the term – to the modern day, when we routinely hear politicians, police officers, and sportsball figures employ it to avoid blame for their errors. What Dr. Carol Tavris and Dr. Elliot Aronson, the authors of the book, emphasize in Mistakes Were Made, however, is that this is not mere fecklessness, or sociopathy, or evil, but a natural defense mechanism in our brains that protects our sense of self.

Cognitive dissonance refers to the conflict that arises in our brains when an established belief runs into contradictory information. We have the choice: Admit our beliefs were mistaken, and conform our beliefs to the new information; or, explain away the new information, by dismissing it, or interpreting it more favorably (and less accurately), so that our preconceived notions remain intact. You can see this playing out right now on social media, where anti-vaxxers and COVID denialists will refuse to accept the copious amounts of evidence undermining their views, claiming that any contradictory research came from “Pharma shills,” or was in unreliable journals (like JAMA or BMJ, you know, sketchy ones) or offering specious objections, like the possible trollbot account claiming a sample size of 2300 was too small.

The term goes back to the 1950s, however, when a deranged Wisconsin housewife named Dorothy Martin claimed she’d been communicating with an alien race, and a bunch of other morons followed her, in some cases selling their worldly possessions, because the Earth was going to be destroyed and the aliens were coming to pick them up and bring them to … I don’t know where, the fifth dimension or something. Known as the Seekers, they were inevitably disappointed when the aliens didn’t know. The crazy woman at the head of the cult claimed that the aliens had changed their minds, and her followers had somehow saved the planet after all.

What interested Festinger and his colleagues was how the adherents responded to the obvious disconfirmation of their beliefs. The aliens didn’t come, because there were no aliens. Yet many of the believers still believed, despite the absolute failure of the prophecy – giving Festinger et al the name of their publication on the aftermath, When Prophecy Fails. The ways in which these people would contort their thinking to avoid the reality that they’d just fallen for a giant scam, giving up their wealth, their jobs, sometimes even family connections to chase this illusion opened up a new field of study for psychologists.

Tavris and Aronson take this concept and pull it forward into modern contexts so we can identify cognitive dissonance in ourselves and in others, and then figure out what to do about it when it rears its ugly head. They give many examples from politicians, such as the members of the Bush Administration who said it wasn’t torture if we did it – a line of argument that President Obama did not reject when he could have – even though we were torturing people at Guantanamo Bay, and Abu Ghraib, and other so-called “black sites.” They also show how cognitive dissonance works in more commonplace contexts, such as how it can affect married couples’ abilities to solve conflicts between them – how we respond to issues big and small in our marriages (or other long-term relationships) can determine whether these relationships endure, but we may be stymied by our minds’ need to preserve our senses of self. We aren’t bad people, we just made mistakes – or mistakes were made, by someone – and it’s easier to remain believers in our inherent goodness if we deny the mistakes, or ascribe them to an external cause. (You can take this to the extreme, where abusers say that their victims “made” them hit them.)

There are two chapters here that I found especially damning, and very frustrating to read because they underscore how insoluble these problems might be. One looks at wrongful convictions, and how prosecutors and police officers refuse to admit they got the wrong guy even when DNA evidence proves that they got the wrong guy. The forces who put the Central Park Five in prison still insisted those five innocent men were guilty even after someone else admitted he was the sole culprit. The other troubling chapter looked at the awful history of repressed memory therapy, which is bullshit – there are no “repressed memories,” so the whole idea is based on a lie. Memories can be altered by suggestion, however, and we have substantial experimental research showing how easily you can implant a memory into someone’s mind, and have them believe it was real. Yet therapists pushed this nonsense extensively in the 1980s, leading to the day care sex abuse scares (which put many innocent people in jail, sometimes for decades), and some still push it today. I just saw a tweet from someone I don’t know who said he was dealing with the trauma of learning he’d been sexually abused as a child, memories he had repressed and only learned about through therapy. It’s nonsense, and now his life – and probably that of at least one family member – will be destroyed by a possibly well-meaning but definitely wrong therapist. Tavris and Aronson provide numerous examples, often from cases well-covered in the media, of therapists insisting that their “discoveries” were correct, or displaying open hostility to evidence-based methods and even threatening scientists whose research showed that repressed memories aren’t real.

I see this stuff play out pretty much any time I say something negative about a team. I pointed out on a podcast last week that the Mets have overlooked numerous qualified candidates of color, in apparent violation of baseball’s “Selig rule,” while reaching well beyond normal circles and apparently targeting less qualified candidates. The response from some Met fans was bitter acknowledgement, but many Met fans responded by attacking me, claiming I couldn’t possibly know what I know (as if, say, I couldn’t just call or text a reported candidate to see if he’d been contacted), or to otherwise defend the Mets’ bizarre behavior. Many pointed out that they tried to interview the Yankees’ Jean Afterman, yet she has made it clear for years that she has no interest in a GM job, which makes this request – if it happened at all – eyewash, a way to appear to comply with the Selig rule’s letter rather than its intent. Allowing cognitive dissonance to drive an irrational defense of yourself, or your family, or maybe even your company is bad enough, but allowing it to make you an irrational defender of a sportsball team in which you have no stake other than your fandom? I might buy a thousand copies of Craig Calcaterra’s new book and just hand it out at random.

Theauthors updated Mistakes Were Made in 2016, in a third edition that includes a new prologue and updates many parts of the text, with references to more recent events, like the murders of Tamir Rice and Eric Garner, so that the text doesn’t feel as dated with its extensive look at the errors that led us into the Iraq War. I also appreciated the short section on Andrew Wakefield and how his paper has created gravitational waves of cognitive dissonance that we will probably face until our species drives itself extinct. I couldn’t help but wonder, however, how the authors might feel now about Michael Shermer, who appears in a story about people who believe they’ve been abducted by aliens (he had such an experience, but knew it was the result of a bout of sleep paralysis) and who provides a quote for the back of the book … but who was accused of sexual harassment and worse before this last edition was published. Did cognitive dissonance lead them to dismiss the allegations (from multiple women) and leave the story and quote in place? The authors are human, too, and certainly as prone to experiencing cognitive dissonance as anyone else is. Perhaps it only strengthens the arguments in this short and easy-to-read book. Mistakes Were Made should be handed to every high school student in the country, at least until we ban books from schools entirely.

Next up: David Mitchell’s The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

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→ November 15, 2021
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Passing.

Nella Larsen’s 1929 novella Passing had, somehow, never been adapted for the screen until this year, despite decades of acclaim – Penguin included it in their Classics series, and LitHub named it one of the 50 best short novels published before 1970 – and themes of race and identity that have lost nothing in relevance since the novel’s publication. Rebecca Hall, star of 2018’s Christine, took on the task of both writing the screenplay and directing the film, producing a highly faithful version of Larsen’s original story that preserves the original’s ambiguity and incisive eye on its main characters.

The novel and film focus on two Black women, Irene (Tessa Thompson) and Clare (Ruth Negga), who were friends in childhood but drifted apart at some point afterwards, only to stumble upon each other in Manhattan one day – in a tea room where both women are “passing” as white. Irene learns that Clare has been passing for years, to the point of marrying a white man who has no idea of her racial background, and that as part of the ruse, Clare puts on a show of hating all Black people – even more so than her husband does. Irene has married a successful doctor (Andre Holland), living in Harlem with their two boys, and is very involved in the Negro Women’s League – a cause to which Clare seems to attach herself, at least as far as attending the social events where she can slide back and forth between her two identities. When Clare becomes closer to Irene’s husband, who is happy to pay her some attention, Irene starts to doubt her friend’s motives, and a coincidental meeting puts them all on the inevitable collision course with the truth.

Hall’s script hews almost completely to Larsen’s original story, down to the characters and settings, a sensible choice given the strength of the original material – especially the characterization of Clare, who might have less screen time than Irene but is the most interesting character by far, as she dances with danger by trying to live in both worlds at the same time. Negga has to be headed for awards nominations with this performance, where she takes the heedless Clare of the book and makes her more subtle, daring with the chances she takes but more sympathetic as she hints at the ways in which she’s trapped herself by passing to this extent. Is she flirting with Irene’s husband, or does she just enjoy the attention of men other than the husband she secretly loathes? (Is he flirting back, or just being chivalrous?) The two women both appear to envy what the other has; Clare is the life of the party, and has access to a whole world that is closed to Irene, while Irene never has the stress of passing, and does not have to deny her identity, or give up her family and friends to have material wealth. Both actresses portray this exquisitely, through tone and expression as well as Hall’s dialogue. Negga in particular could strip paint off the walls just through a change in how she looks at another character, while Thompson’s portrayal of Irene is understated because of the way that character keeps her mistrust and rage bottled up.

Hall shot the film in black and white, which certainly helps evoke the 1920s (pre-Crash) setting, but also creates additional ambiguity around the varying skin tones of the main characters. If you had never seen Thompson or Negga before Passing, you might not immediately know either woman was Black. (Negga is part Ethiopian and part Irish, and has been vocal about her identification with and interest in Black history.) Negga’s hair is dyed blonde, further developing her racial ambiguity and making it easier to see how she might slide back and forth between the white world of midtown Manhattan – and her racist husband – and Irene’s world of Harlem. It is as un-showy a directorial effort as you might find, especially for someone’s debut in that chair, but that makes it all the more remarkable, and one I hope is fully recognized by critics and awards shows.

I’ve only seen two movies that are awards contenders for 2021, this and In the Heights, so saying this is one of the best things I’ve seen all year seems rather disingenuous, but I feel confident I won’t see five better movies than Passing in this cycle. It’s so well-written and well-acted, and it is the type of movie I especially enjoy. Passing has a leisurely rhythm that contrasts the seriousness of its subject matter in such a way that the conclusion packs the maximum possible punch, and even though I knew what was coming, I still felt the full impact because Hall and her two leads set it up so well.

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→ November 8, 2021
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Bird by Bird.

When I asked readers for suggestions for books about writing, the second-most cited book, after Stephen King’s On Writing, was Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. It’s a wonderful, slim book of short but very potent essays on just about everything related to writing, with an emphasis on fiction (and, at that, I’d say the short form), but much of it is also applicable to other forms of writing or merely the act of writing itself. It inspired me, and I say that as someone who is infrequently inspired at this point, even when it comes to writing about things I enjoy.

The book is filled with advice, and I don’t want to reproduce much of it here, because you should go read the book itself, and also because the advice just sounds much better in Lamott’s voice, with her wry humor and copious examples. She draws extensively on her experience teaching writing classes as well as writing for herself, allowing her to speak about things like writer’s block, creating credible characters, publishing, not publishing, and more in both her own voice and those of her students. I found nearly all of this advice to either ring true to my own experiences – especially that on writer’s block, something I haven’t truly experienced, because I can always just write something else and get things moving again – or to answer questions I’ve always had, such as how to do things like create those credible characters or write dialogue that sounds true, both to how people talk (which isn’t as easy as it sounds) and to the characters speaking it.

There’s plenty in here on getting started, which is something I often hear from aspiring writers is a huge part of the problem – they want to write, but can’t figure out how to begin. (With the first word, of course.) Lamott has sage advice on reasons to write, and reasons not to do so – not if you think it’s a quick route to wealth, or financial freedom, or popularity; if you doubt her, she has plenty of failure stories from her own career, from books rejected by publishers to dealing with self-doubt and the voices in her head that love to tell her she’s not any good at writing. (She is, though. Very.) It’s always helpful to know that other writers, especially those who have had more success than I have or have had longer careers, deal with the same kind of doubts and impostor syndrome that I do, and to be reminded that writing is its own end. Writing should give you joy, to use the popular bromide of the day. If it doesn’t, don’t do it. If it does, then how much you make from it – if you make anything at all, if you even publish – doesn’t matter. 

Lamott is an irreverent writer who is perhaps best known for some of her writing on faith, including the best-selling Traveling Mercies, and while her beliefs do show up in the pages here, I thought it was always in service of her larger points, without proselytizing or excluding; on the contrary, she goes out of her way to include people of all faiths and no faiths in the book. I can’t say I was concerned – I try to read as diverse a set of authors as possible – but I include this for anyone who might have felt disinclined to read for Bird by Bird for this reason.

The title of Bird by Bird comes from a wonderful anecdote within an early essay that, in short, is the writing equivalent of taking it one day at a time. One of the biggest obstacles I have always faced as a writer, regardless of my subject, has been the discouragement I feel when I think about the whole project – its size, yes, but my ability to complete it, and make it good, and in a timely fashion, and not to be distracted by that thing I’ve been meaning to bake or that game I’ve wanted to play. So much of Bird by Bird comprises gentle reminders that you can do this, and it’s okay to fail, or think you’re going to fail. Just keep going, bird by bird.

—

I also read another of your recommendations, Verlyn Klinkenborg’s Several Short Sentences About Writing. It’s a twee book with advice written to look like verse, in a voice that would make me think violent thoughts about any teacher who lectured in it. There’s some useful advice buried within it, but I encountered at least as much advice that I would say I violate every time I start to write, and while it’s written by a journalist largely for journalists, I’m not sure how much of the counsel here I’d truly endorse. I did enjoy the last 50 pages, with examples of bad writing from students he’s taught over the years, which ranges from the execrable to the unintentionally hilarious. It’s more than a matter of laughing at bad writing, but many of the examples illuminate problems with the language itself, ways in which English, or a lack of command of it, can lead us astray. There’s value in that. Perhaps he should have made three-fourths of the book out of that, and limited his advice to the remainder – without the pompous formatting.

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→ October 27, 2021
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Homegoing.

My daughter had to read Yaa Gyasi’s acclaimed debut novel Homegoing for her 9th grade English class, reporting that she thought it was extremely well-written, just sad. I tend to enjoy post-colonial literature, so I thought I’d give it a shot, further encouraged by the fact that the novel had won the PEN/Hemingway Award.

The novel is a sequence of fourteen connected short stories that follow the descendants of two Asante half-sisters, one of whom was sold into slavery, the other married to an English colonizer, down to the present day, by which point both lineages are in the United States. What happens from there isn’t as simple as you’d expect – this isn’t Sliding Doors, where everything is great in one set of stories and awful in the others – as Gyasi builds a new character in every chapter, developing them as independent people but also recognizing how history would define not just their circumstances but their personalities as well. The stories move through several centuries of history, from the way contact with Europeans tore apart the Gold Coast to how slavery and Jim Crow laws continue to limit Black Americans’ economic opportunities.

Even as the setting shifts from present-day Ghana to the U.S., the shadow of colonization obscures everything that happens in Homegoing. The course of history was changed when white people showed up in Africa and decided it was theirs – the land, the resources, and even the people – and the ramifications echo down through seven generations in this novel. Gyasi doesn’t deny her characters free will, but we are all shaped by our circumstances, and her characters’ circumstances build on themselves like a matryoshka, so that the characters in our present day, who would appear to have more freedom and more opportunity, are still weighed down by the centuries of oppression that preceded them.

I can also see why my daughter wouldn’t love the stories in this book, as most are grim, many are violent, and few offer much hope. There’s some graphic content in here, including rape and sexual assault, enough that I assume many schools wouldn’t assign it, but it’s almost certainly an accurate depiction of the way the English treated the Asante natives, and later enslaved, and of course the way American slaveowners treated their slaves.

Where Gyasi excels is in her ability to create one interesting character after another, despite only giving us a short time with each of them and also working with the constraints of the previous story in each chain (and, I presume, the subsequent stories as well). It’s an impressive feat of imagination within the confines of the novel’s structure, marking her as someone who is as deft with the short form as well as the longer.

It’s also why I’m not talking much about the individual characters and stories – they’re so short that I don’t want to spoil too much of them. Esi is the half-sister who is enslaved, then raped by a British officer; her daughter, born of that assault, grows up a slave in the American south, and manages to send her baby with an escaping slave to freedom in Baltimore, starting a chain of misery that moves back into the deep south and then to New York, with racism, further violence, forced labor, and more. Effia marries the Governor of the slave castle where, unbeknownst to her, her half-sister Esi is held in the dungeon below. Their child, Quey, is ill at ease in the white man’s world and returns to his Asante people, beginning a back-and-forth pattern between the Black and white cultures in east Africa until the final story sees their descendant in Alabama, where the two stories will eventually reconnect. It’s a masterwork of planning, with the parallel narratives coming together in a way that is driven by coincidence yet feels natural, almost inevitable, and that will never have you thinking how meticulous the novel’s structure is.

Next up: I’m reading some of the books on writing that you all recommended, having finished Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird and started Verlyn Klinkenborg’s Several Short Sentences about Writing.

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→ October 7, 2021
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Harlem Shuffle.

Colson Whitehead’s last two novels, The Underground Railroad and The Nickel Boys, both won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, making him the first Black author to win that prize twice. Both were serious novels, the first with fantastical elements to try to tell a familiar story in a new way, the latter more straightforward, but neither presaged what he’s done in his latest novel, Harlem Shuffle, which is funnier, more action-packed, and just generally more entertaining.

Harlem Shuffle is the story of two men in that part of Manhattan in the early 1960s. Raymond, the son of a crook who has become an entrepreneur, owns a furniture store in Harlem that caters to the customers the white-owned stores downtown won’t serve. Freddie, his ne’er-do-well cousin, has been getting Ray in trouble since they were kids, and this time, he lands Ray smack in the middle of a heist that has half of Harlem looking for them, and involves Ray with the kind of people he never wanted to be involved with – the people with whom his father did jobs, that is. When a mobster’s goons show up at the store, and a crooked cop does too, things go pear-shaped for the cousins, leaving Raymond to try to find a way to clean up the mess and protect his family. Meanwhile, Ray’s situation at home is always tenuous. He needs a bigger house for his growing family, while his in-laws continue to look down on him as the son of a crook, which makes him not good enough for their daughter. He’s already conflicted about taking any money from Freddie’s shenanigans, but now anything he gets from the big score would help him move to a better place … while also risking further scorn from his in-laws and even the trust of his wife.

My experience with Whitehead is limited to the two novels that won him the Pulitzer, both of which were weighted down with heavy themes and only lightened by Whitehead’s remarkable prose and rich characterization. Here, Whitehead gets to have some fun, even though there are undercurrents of violence, internecine warfare in Harlem’s Black community, white cops assaulting Black citizens (including the real Harlem riots of 1964, which occur right around Ray’s store and shut down much of the commerce on which he depends), and more. There’s also a subtle theme of the growing divide within the Black community between the upwardly mobile and those still held down by the extensive obstacles of the time and the history of oppression that still limits Black Americans’ economic opportunities today.

I’ve seen media coverage of Harlem Shuffle that makes it sound like a heist novel – possibly pushed by the publisher – but it’s more heist-adjacent, since Ray doesn’t participate in the heist itself, just in the misadventures that follow when you steal something that a very powerful and violent person would not want to have stolen. Whitehead adapts one of the best aspects of the heist genre, or just the hard-boiled crime genre in general – the array of eccentric and often funny side characters that populate many of those novels. A thief named Pepper who worked with Ray’s dad turns out to be a pivotal character as the novel progresses. Miami Joe is one of the main antagonists in the first part of the novel. Chet the Vet is so-called because he went to vet school for all of a month before turning to crime. Between these fun, if only morally compromised, side characters and Whitehead’s ability to shift between the highbrow prose of his award-winning novels and the vernacular of his 1960s setting, Harlem Shuffle was a blast to read, perhaps an entrée into his work for folks who want to start with some lighter fare before reading his two more serious books.

Next up: David Ewalt’s Of Dice and Men, recommended to me by Foxing lead singer/songwriter (and longtime D&D player) Connor Murphy.

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→ September 21, 2021
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Seven Bridges.

Seven Bridges is a “stroll-and-write” game based on the famous mathematical problem, eventually proved unsolvable by Leonhard Euler: Can a pedestrian walk through the German city of Königsberg, crossing each of its seven bridges exactly once? Euler’s proof became a foundational one in the history of graph theory, but that’s beyond the scope of the game. (The game is currently unavailable, but I’ll update this post when Puzzling Pixel gets the next print run.)

In Seven Bridges, all players begin by marking in the same square on their pages, showing a grid map of the city with, indeed, seven bridges, along with thirteen ‘landmarks,’ some trees, lots of buildings, and numbers around the map’s edge. On each player’s turn, they roll the game’s six dice, which the players then draft, one at a time. The dice show seven different shapes of roads: a straight line, a cross, a T, an elbow, a half-street, a 2 with a straight line, or a 3 with a straight line. You must fill in roads on your map using the shape of the die you select, connecting one of the edges of the shape your existing network of roads. (In rare instances when you can’t legally do so, you may ‘downgrade’ to a less valuable shape.) The 2 | and the 3 | die faces mean you may draw a continuous line up to that many spaces long; you can go shorter than that, but you can’t break it apart or turn its direction. Each player gets to roll five times over the course of the game.

Passing landmarks, which are marked with single letters on the board, earns you the choice of eleven bonuses, seven immediate and four you can use later. The immediate bonuses match the shapes on the dice, so you can fill in one of those shapes on your board, following the usual rules. One of the extra bonuses allows you to fill in the handful of footpaths – bordered by dashed lines rather than solid ones – on the map. The other three are re-rolls, which either let you roll all remaining dice again, or stop the draft and distribute all remaining dice to players as you see fit.

You don’t have to cross all seven bridges to win this game, but you do get more points for crossing more bridges. You score for crossing bridges and passing by landmarks; the more of each, the more each subsequent one is worth. You score for the largest closed loop of roads/footpaths you completed by multiplying its number of bridges cross by the number of 90 degree turns in it; I think five is the maximum number of bridges you can possibly get, but you can absolutely get 8 or more right angles into a loop. You score a point for each building you pass, and for each tree you pass. You score for each road you take to the edge of the map, worth a number of points from 1 to 6 that is shown at that edge. And you score points for each bonus you received and used during the game, again from 1 to 6.

The game is kind of mathy under the hood, which strongly appeals to me; there’s a spatial relations aspect, and a clear push-your-luck aspect to the way you place your roads. You can go big, and end up without the shapes you need to complete a major route, or you can play it safe and hope no one else completes something larger. You can also head to certain areas of the map that are dense with trees but don’t promise you much in the way of other bonuses. There seem to be a lot of ways to win here, and just as many ways to screw it up.

I’ve only played this with two players, several times, however, and with a different opponent each time. Games took maybe 20-30 minutes, and if both players already know the rules, it could easily come in under 20. With two players, since you draft three dice on each roll, you only have ten total rolls over the course of the game. With the maximum of 6 players, you’d have 30 rolls, and that’s going to take some more time. Seven Bridges was first released at the very end of 2020, after my year-end list, so it qualifies for this year’s, and it has a very good chance to make my best of 2021 list. It’s quick to teach, offers very little downtime between turns, and does a fantastic job of bringing a mathematical puzzle into a board game format. It might be the best roll-and-write I’ve ever played.

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→ September 1, 2021
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Summer Camp.

Summer Camp has flown under the radar among new games this year because it’s a Target exclusive release (at least for now) and comes from a publisher not known for tabletop strategy titles, Buffalo Games, a publisher of jigsaw puzzles and party games. Yet Summer Camp is from Phil Walker-Harding, the mind behind Cacao, Gizmos, Imhotep, Imhotep: The Duel, and Silver & Gold, and it’s a straight-up deckbuilder, one that – dare I say it – is actually fun for the whole family. It’s so light and breezy for a deckbuilding title that you can play with anyone in the house who reads fluently. Right now, it’s $24.99 on Target.com, although I found it for 10% off in store a few weeks ago.

Summer Camp does have a modular board of 9 tiles that you arrange randomly in a 3×3 grid at the start of each game, forming three paths across the board, left to right, that your campers will try to traverse as you play. Each path is tied to a specific activity – Cooking, Water Sports, Outdoors, Friendship, Arts & Crafts – and has merit badges for campers who get all the way to the end of the path before the game ends, with more points for those who get there first. Along the paths, certain spaces give you a one-time bonus, allowing you to move any camper one more spot, to draw one more card into your hand, or to gain one snack bar (+1 energy for purchasing cards).

The heart of the game is your deck, which you’ll build as the game progresses, trying to get more powerful cards to drown out the relatively weak ten cards with which you start the game: seven Lights Out card, which have no value other than their purchasing power of 1 energy; and one card for each of the three paths that allows you to move your camper forward one space. Other than the Lights Out cards, all cards have an action on them – move 2+ spaces, move any camper one space, draw another card, discard & draw, gain 2-4 energy for purchases on this turn, and so on.

On each turn, you draw a fresh hand of five cards from your deck, and at the end of your turn, you discard all cards to your discard pile, shuffling the latter when your deck runs out. All cards have a value of 1 energy if you don’t use them, so you will never have a turn where you can’t do anything – even drawing five Lights Out card lets you buy one or more cards with a total cost of 5. There are also three stacks of generic cards, not tied to any of the separate path decks, that are always available to purchase – S’mores, cost 2, worth +2 energy for purchases; Scavenger Hunt, cost 3, which lets you discard 1-3 cards and draw that many again; and Free Time, cost 4, which lets you move one camper on any track one space forward. That’s a huge part of what makes this game more friendly to younger players and casual gamers – you will never have a wasted turn. You can always buy something, and the cheapest cards to buy are still useful.

There is some light strategy involved in how you move the campers, balancing the points value of getting the merit badges first – when you get all your campers to the first bridge, one-third of the way across the board, you get the top badge in that pile, and there’s another pile worth more points when you get all your campers to the second bridge – against the value of getting to the end of a path first. You also may move certain campers to trigger those space bonuses, especially the one where you get to draw another card, which can keep your chain of moves moving or just get you more buying power. If there’s a best way to build a deck here, I haven’t caught on to it yet; there is no card anywhere in the game that lets you trash any cards (like the Chapel card in Dominion), and the fact that only two cards are available from each path deck at any given time makes it very hard for one player to monopolize a good card or build a deck full of a specific type of card. That serves to balance things out, and may frustrate experienced players who like deckbuilders that give you more control, but for a game that is clearly aimed at family play – right down to the theme – it makes perfect sense. It’s great for ages 8+ and the box’s suggested play time of 30-45 minutes is about right once everyone gets the deck concept.

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→ August 20, 2021
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Abandon All Artichokes.

Abandon All Artichokes is a game as silly as its title, taking one tiny sliver of strategy from deckbuilders and making an entire game out of it: Get rid of your artichoke cards so that you become the first player to draw a fresh hand of five cards without any artichokes in it. It’s quick, and fun, and easy to learn for any player old enough to read the text on the other vegetable cards.

Each player in Abandon All Artichokes starts with ten cards, all of which are artichokes, and which are the only artichoke cards that you’ll use in the game. The main deck in the game comprises cards of other vegetables, each of which has an action associated with it. There’s a garden row of five cards that you refill after each player’s turn. On your turn, you must take one card from the garden row into your hand. You may then play as many cards from your hand as you’d like, using the actions printed on them, and then end your turn by discarding everything that’s left, artichokes and other. Then you draw a fresh hand of five cards, shuffling your discard pile into your deck if necessary, and play continues.

The main power to get rid of artichokes is composting. Four vegetables let you directly compost an artichoke card:

  • A carrot lets you compost two artichokes in your hand, but you can’t take another action that turn, and you compost the carrot too.
  • A broccoli lets you compost one artichoke if you have at least three in your hand.
  • An onion lets you compost one artichoke, but you then give the onion to an opponent by putting it on their discard pile.
  • An eggplant lets you compost one artichoke, and then players exchange two cards from their hands (of their choice).

There’s also the potato, which lets you draw the top card from your deck and compost it if it’s an artichoke; and the beet, for which you and an opponent each reveal a random card from your hands, and compost them if they’re both artichokes, exchanging them if they’re not.

The other vegetables don’t involve composting at all. Corn must be played with one artichoke, and it lets you take any card from the garden row and put it on top of your deck (so it will be in your hand on your next turn). A leek lets you reveal the top card of an opponent’s deck, after which you can take it or put it on their discard pile. A pepper lets you take a card from your discard pile and put it on top of your deck, which is nice for getting a strong card right back into your hand.

The key to success in Abandon All Artichokes is speed – these games go quickly, often faster than the 20 minute time shown on the box. You don’t have to get rid of all of your artichokes to win, although that doesn’t hurt; you just have to draw a hand of five cards without any artichokes in it. That could also involve composting a bunch of artichokes and also adding as many cards as you can do your deck so your odds of drawing five straight cards without an artichoke go up, but I haven’t seen anyone win that way, playing live or online. I think the slim deck strategy is the better one, not too far off from the Chapel strategy in the original Dominion, but it’s possible that with more players or the right vegetables you could pull off a “fat” deck strategy and win.

The box says it’s for ages 10+, but I would say that if your kid can read at a third-grade level they can probably play this game. There isn’t a lot of deep strategy here that would be beyond an 8-year-old’s reach, and the 20-minute playing time (if that) is great for all ages. It’s only about $13 everywhere I can find it, including at amazon, and even better comes in a small artichoke-shaped box. The ceiling on a game like this isn’t super high, but I love it as a family filler game.

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→ June 17, 2021
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Spicy.

Spicy is a bluffing party game that came out in 2020, the first English-language release from Hungarian designer Gy?ri Zoltán Gábor, released last July by HeidelBÄR and probably something I would have seen at Gen Con had the normal convention season taken place.

Spicy plays 2 to 6 players, although I think it needs at least 3 to work well. The deck has 100 cards in it, ninety of which have a number from 1 to 10 and a color/spice – red (chili), green (wasabi), or blue (pepper). There are five wild cards that can be any number from 1 to 10 but have no color, and five color wilds that have no number. Each player begins the game with six cards from the shuffled deck.

The start player must begin a new pile in the center of the table by playing any card with value 1 to 3, stating the card’s value and color when they place it face-down on the table. Play goes around the table, and each player must then play a higher-valued card in the same color, until someone plays a 10 card in that color, after which the next player must play a 1, 2, or 3 card to keep the pile going. A player can pass and draw a card rather than playing.

Because all of the cards are played face-down, however, you can bluff, lying about number or color or both. If nobody challenges the play, it stands. Any other player can challenge it, though, placing a hand on the pile and saying whether they’re challenging the declared number or color. If the challenge succeeds, the challenger takes the pile and the challenge loser draws two cards and must start a new pile. If the challenge fails, the challenger draws the two cards while the player who placed the card wins the pile. Wild cards win any challenge for their shown variable and lose any challenge for the one they don’t show.

There are also three 10-point trophy cards you can win during the game. If you play the last card in your hand and it’s not challenged, or if it’s challenged and you win the challenge, you take a trophy card. If any player gets two trophy cards, they win the game immediately. Otherwise, the game continues until either all three trophies have been claimed, or until someone draws the World’s End card that’s placed about ¾ of the way down the deck when the game begins. Players then get one point for each card they’ve gained in piles from challenges won, and add 10 points for each trophy card. Whoever has the most points wins.

This is a bluffing game, and as such, it’s only fun when players lie – a lot, preferably. If everyone just tells the truth, and then draws cards when they don’t have a legal (true) play, the game is going to be boring. You have to go for it, and have a good poker face, and recognize that people probably aren’t going to challenge every single time – and the bigger the pile, the less someone will want to challenge and potentially hand an opponent a large stack of points.

There’s an advanced mode, where you randomly add one of the “Spice It Up!” cards that add or change something in the rules, such as letting you change the color of the stack to red if you play a 1, 2, or 3; or where playing a 5 lets you add two cards to the pile and draw two new cards to your hand. I don’t think these add a whole lot to the game, but your mileage may vary. This game is a ton of fun if you get into the spirit of it, so if you get the right group – and, although I haven’t tried this yet, I imagine if you get the right drinks on the table – it’s absolutely worth getting, especially at $15. I don’t think it works with 2 people, and if your group doesn’t bluff well or like games of deceit, you might not like it as I did.

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