There’s something magical about a Monday game night in Asheville, NC that defies the laws of exhaustion. On May 5th, twenty-seven gamers filtered into the familiar warmth of our weekly meetup—each one eager to shuffle, deal, bluff, bid, build, and maybe betray a few friends along the way.
The tables filled up fast, the smell of chips and well-loved cardboard hanging in the air like incense for a sacred ritual of nerd joy.
At one corner table, the Power Grid crew got down to business early, eyes already narrowed in quiet calculation. As the map of Germany filled with brightly colored little houses and crisscrossing wires, the tone at the table grew increasingly cutthroat. Alliances formed with the flick of a bidding paddle, only to dissolve with a price hike in coal. Curtis, ever the silent strategist, timed his expansion perfectly, locking the rest of the table out of a critical power plant and grinning like a cat in a birdcage. “It’s not personal,” he said, stacking his Elektros smugly. No one believed him.
Meanwhile, laughter and accusations echoed from the Sheriff of Nottingham table like a medieval marketplace in chaos. Bags of apples—or were they crossbows?—slid across the table as players eyed each other for signs of treachery. Kim, who always plays the honest merchant, finally snapped. “Fine. It’s contraband. All of it.” She slammed a bag full of illegal goods on the table with a rebel yell, drawing gasps and applause in equal measure. The Sheriff cracked a rare smile and let it through, collecting a bribe and muttering, “You’ll all pay taxes eventually.”
As the night deepened, and the caffeine levels spiked, a darker mood gathered around the Blood Bound table. The lights were low, the voices quiet, and the stakes felt high. Seven players locked in a slow-burn dance of deduction and deception. No one knew who was who—Vampire or Inquisitor, Beast or Guardian—and that was exactly how they liked it. Accusations flew like daggers. A player’s eyes went wide as their role was revealed by a strategic attack—“I knew it!” someone hissed. But they didn’t. It was a double bluff inside a triple bluff, and the Inquisitor walked away victorious, cloaked in shadow and smug satisfaction.
Around these three featured tables, a hive of activity buzzed—Cascadia, Wingspan, Coup, Azul, and a chaotic ten-player round of Wits & Wagers that felt more like a pub trivia riot than a board game. New friendships sparked. Old grudges reignited. Snacks vanished mysteriously.
By the end of the night, a few games were left unfinished, their boards quietly abandoned like sacred texts waiting for the next sermon. As we packed up the pieces and said our goodbyes, one thing was certain: Monday night magic is real. You just need 27 people, a few great games, and the willingness to lie through your teeth.