Some games are haunted. Maybe not literally. Jumanji is not a documentary after all. But like your favorite music, games seem to contain some resonance of all the times you’ve played them. They are not quite as ever present, always in the background like music can be, the literal soundtrack of your life. But they are certainly present in a different way than media that transports you from your current situation, like books or movies. When you play games, you are very much with the people you play with, interacting, telling stories or jokes between turns. It is social. It is also very much located somewhere, the play space matters to some degree. The where and the who is baked into the experience and consequently they sort of rub off on the game itself. So this week is less of a story about a game per se and more of a story of where and who. It is a story of the joy and grief tied up inside a cardboard box.

In 2019, inspired by a desktop background, my brother Matt and I planned a trip to Norway. He needed a travel partner and the picture was just breathtaking enough to inspire a whole trip. It was our first and only vacation that we have taken as adults; a small feat in and of itself. Like most brothers we had our challenges and butted heads when we were younger, but the stars aligned just right for this journey. We booked a flight North of Oslo, to Lofoten, the island where the picture came from, and where one of our ancestors emigrated from over a century ago. In my research I discovered there was a game named after one of the scenic locations in Lofoten, Nusfjord, a historic fishing village. It was designed by the creator of Agricola and looked intriguing so I hatched the plan to play Nusfjord, in Nusfjord. My brother was on board with the plan but there was one problem; learning the game. My brother is not as into games as I am and so I endeavored to learn the game from top to bottom so there’s less of a chance for it to fall apart the day of. 

Two years before this trip in 2017, I took a writing class. I was at a peak of loneliness, very much out of the board game hobby, and honestly looking for social connection as much as writing practice. The universe provided, and I met five friends in that class that were some of my closest in those next few years, and still friends to this day.While not everyone in that group was into board games, one of the group, Fatima, was a perfect accomplice. She loved a complex game and had mastered Agricola as a distraction from a particularly unfulfilling romantic relationship. When I asked her to help me learn Nusfjord she was enthusiastically on board.

What we discovered together was a strange game indeed. In Nusfjord, each player builds a fishing village, using three worker pieces a turn to claim the resources and actions they need to build the buildings and the ships of the town. So far, pretty straight forward, standard worker placement game like any of dozens of others in the hobby. However there are a couple of twists. First, there’s a fishing phase where your ever increasing fleet of boats catches more and more fish, a sort of passive income that you can work on each turn. But these fish don’t just go straight to your inventory, there are the village elders to feed, and shares of your fishing company to pay back… fish interest on? Meanwhile you also actively manage the forests on your board by cutting down or planting whole jungles of woods around your village Speaking of those elders, one of them has an odd resemblance to my grandfather. In another nod to the community of the village there is a banquet table that you can sell fish to that keeps the whole operation humming. It was, to be honest, a tough game to learn but once Fatima and I peeled back its layers we found something truly unique. We also, more importantly, got to spend some time together, just the two of us versus the larger friend group of six. We laid the foundation of a deepening friendship that would get us both through some pretty hard times. 

So I was ready to teach and ready for the trip. Playing the game in the actual place exceeded all expectations. The sun was shining, we were there, above the arctic circle but in t-shirts sitting on the dock, drinking beers and playing a game together. A ship like one in the game was docked nearby, the iconic red buildings in the distance, and some yellow ones that the game did not capture. It was a perfect day, and it didn’t matter who won. Later that same week, rain had washed out our plans. So in the hotel lobby we played Nusfjord back to back, three times. It was the only game we had, and so it was what we played. Even on the tiny hotel desks at our next step along the journey. We passed the time, and dove deeper each time. I got to show my brother the depths of the hobby that I love.

Years later, after the strangeness, loss, and alienation of covid, and the upheaval of the protests that summer, Fatima and I had grown apart. I recognized where she was, feeling both helpless and frustrated. She was in the midst of an undoing, a phase we all have in one way or another, where life has to get torn apart before we know what it is again. Out of the blue, she reached out. She had gotten covid a second time, and was calling in the return of a favor after dropping off groceries when I had covid a few months before. She asked me to pick up a scone and a latte from our favorite coffee shop. I was happy to oblige. I left the gifts on her stoop, and looked up to see her in the window. She smiled and waved and we had a brief distanced conversation. It felt good to see her, to catch up after it had been too long. Months later the six of us of the original writing friend group finally got together again for the first time in two years. We were at karaoke night for one of the group member’s birthday, dressed in Halloween costumes. Fatima seemed subdued and tired, but there was a genuine high in all being together again like old times.

Three weeks later I got a call while driving home. Fatima had passed away suddenly after a battle with long Covid. She was 29 years old. Life became a blur of strangeness and grief, and confusion among the friend group. We bonded together as we went through the strange finality of the funeral. We leaned on each other, finally arriving at a meal later that day, finding ourselves starving and exhausted. After I said goodbye to those who helped me through that day, I was kind of lost with what to do with myself next. I went, almost out of habit, to the post Thanksgiving game day. I brought the games I played with her. One of them was Nusfjord, a totem of a dear friend who was now gone.

Grief is strange. It’s been nearly two years since Fatimas passed away. And yet, I still expect to receive a text or call from her, to have a chat or play a game. Just this month, a new version of the Nusfjord was released. A big box version with all the expansions. I bought it at the local shop, opened it, and took out only what was new. I packed these into my well loved and beat up copy. It is complete, and it is the one that has traveled with me these past years. Perhaps  it was a strange and superstitious thing to do vs just replacing it with the newest version. But the game has resonance, I cannot simply replace it. When it came time to pack for the convention this past weekend, I packed Nusfjord, excited to show it to new people. I put up a “Looking for Players” sign and met some friendly strangers. I played it twice last weekend, and relished in teaching its strange mechanisms, how you feed the elders, build the village, and bring in your haul of fish. I showed pictures of my trip, and explained how the real place differs from the board game. One of the players at the table had never played this kind of game before, and was struck by how unique the theme is. We all told stories of our villages, his was a village that was very bad at fishing but surrounded by tons of beautiful woods and a majestic theater. He asked me where he can get a copy and I mentioned I had a spare, the remainder of the big box copy. Who knows what  new memories that copy will make.