The Biggest Loser

2024-01-14

I’m a loser. I mean that literally. On Board Game Arena, where my friends and I play online versions of our favorite board games, my stats are consistently at the bottom. I lose more than anyone I know, even if I only know ten people. A larger sample size would just mean more people beating me. I don’t care if I win. That’s the lie I tell myself, anyway. From the moment I got into them, board games were merely an excuse to socialize. You might think the point of an afternoon of board games is to score points, but the real point is to make friends. Those who suspected a trap were right to stay home. Now that I’ve conned a few people into being part of my crew, it would be nice to not come in dead last every once in a while. Unfortunately, it looks like that’s not in the cards. Once again, I mean that literally. It’s also not in the dice, tile stack, or spinny thingy on those drunk nights when we give up on thinky stuff and switch to kids games. You haven’t lived until you’re four whiskeys deep and take on Chutes and Ladders.

My losing streak is the most evident in the online version of Space Base. It’s a luck management game. I manage not to have any. One player rolls two dice, and every player collects rewards based on which space-themed cards they’ve stacked on those numbers. It sounds like nerd bingo, but it must have an element of skill because I come in at the bottom far more often than random chance would suggest. I’m not sure what my problem is. I’ve tried coming up with unique strategies. I’ve tried copying what everyone else is doing. I’ve tried getting other players to feel sorry for me and throw their turns. Nothing works. When we play online, the game is mainly an excuse to trash talk each other throughout the day, but it’s hard to hurl insults from way back in last place. There’s an overall skill ranking that shows how bad I am, in case all the other evidence is too anecdotal. I really didn’t need my failures to be quantified. I suppose I should be grateful the game gave me a number at all. It could have just said “null set” because my tactical abilities are too low to be calculated. Scoring off the scale works in both directions.

In a way, my board game strategy was a wild success. My friends and I now play games online every day and in person once or twice a week. I just wish I wouldn’t have succeeded at the thing I fail at the most. Not that there were a lot of other options. When I first committed to building a group of friends as an adult a few years ago, I attempted a wide variety of activities to meet new people. All of them went even worse than board games, if that can be believed. I tried ultimate frisbee for a while. There’s a group that meets downtown every Sunday. They’re a casual bunch who don’t put too much emphasis on winning, so I thought I would fit right in. The main thing I want from life is to not get yelled at when I screw up. Then I discovered it feels even worse when I mess up and people are kind and supportive. I can’t handle that, especially when my ineptitude forces them to be kind and supportive to me over and over again. My humiliation was compounded because, at first glance, I look like I’m perfectly built to play ultimate frisbee. I’m a lifelong runner with the same wingspan as a California condor. If I spread my arms, I can stand in one place and cover the entire field. Unfortunately, at this stage of my life, I can’t throw, I can’t catch, and I can’t run. Well, not being able to catch or throw has been consistent throughout my entire existence. Someone half my height would guard me and I’d become utterly frazzled. It never occurred to me to just throw over the top of their head. No one has ever accused me of doing well under pressure, which is why it’s good that I write books instead of performing surgery or sending rockets into space. As for not being able to run, all those miles earlier in my life really did a number on me. I would feel fine during two hours of ultimate frisbee, but as soon as I sat down in my van afterwards, the swelling would start. I wouldn’t be able to walk for the rest of the week. It was too much emotional and physical damage, so I had to let ultimate frisbee go. The group seemed fine with that decision. After a year and a half of playing off and on, I exchanged zero phone numbers and made no new friends. I’m sure they still talk about the awkward skinny guy who couldn’t play. Not really. They couldn’t pick me out of a police lineup, which is actually a good thing considering the crime sprees I have planned.

I also tried to make friends at Krav Maga. I stuck with that one for several years. It seemed useful to be able to defend myself, even if the notion of self-defense around here is a joke. I live in America. More specifically, Indiana, the Americanest part of America. In my town, you need a permit NOT to carry a gun. Given that there are three times more firearms than people, it’s best to be polite to everyone. Even the nuns are packing Uzis. The Krav Maga instructors taught us what to do if someone had a gun and we didn’t, but I’m certain that advice would have gotten us killed. Well, gotten me killed. If I can’t throw a frisbee past a defender the size of a third grader, I’m not going to wrestle a Glock out of the hands of a mass shooter. Those tactics were secondary. The first advice the instructors gave was that, in nearly any dangerous situation, your best bet is to run away. That’s how I was sure they knew what they were talking about. If only I could still run.

I mostly took the class because it seemed like a fun way to meet other people in my demographic: bored, slightly out of shape twenty and thirty-somethings who don’t mind getting punched in the face if it means a night or two a week out of the house. The punching part was relative. I deliberately partnered with people who didn’t hit very hard. It turns out pain isn’t much fun. Who knew? Also, it was way on the other side of Indy. I found myself watching the clock most nights waiting for it to be over so I can drive home and go to bed. That wasn’t the recipe for building a new group of friends. I finally quit Krav last summer when the first deadline for The Gods of Spenser Island was coming up. Once again, I didn’t exchange contact info with anyone. They were good dudes, but we didn’t have much in common other than not trying very hard when pain was involved. We’re at the age where we can injure ourselves just rolling out of bed. Actually trying to hurt each other would be overkill.

I was just as unsuccessful at board games, but they played more to my key interests, namely sitting still and drinking. If I come away from board game night with unexplained bruises, I’m doing something very wrong—or very right. Slap Jack is always played for blood. At first, I considered a board game night to be a success if people showed up. Once I found a crew with low enough standards to put up with me, my bar rose. It was now a successful night if we learned the rules to a new game. That could be dicey. My wife hates the way I teach board games. It’s like giving me permission to mansplain. It annoys her to her very core. To avoid a divorce, I’ve started sending everyone tutorials in advance. YouTube saved my marriage. Successfully playing a new board game is like having your first conversation in a foreign language. It feels like an accomplishment to pull it off, even if all you did was ask for directions to the bathroom with the syntax of a caveman. If my group mastered the rules to a new game, that was a win, even if I lost. In fact, I made it a precondition that, on the first playthrough, I automatically came in last, regardless of the final score. That way, there wouldn’t be a riot when I invariably forgot to teach one rule that caused me to win. I was tired of explaining it happened due to incompetence rather than malice. It was easier just to take the L.

Photo by Robert Coelho on Unsplash

That was then. Today, my roster of board game friends is firmly established. The next step is to destroy them. That’s never going to happen. I’ve developed a reputation as the guy who always loses, even once we get past the introductory game and I’m actually trying. I don’t mind losing individual games. Any damage to my pride is easily assuaged with beer and pizza. The mental strain does add up over time, though. I don’t want my entire social circle to think I’m dumb. Eventually, I should win a game, if only by accident. I’m equally adept at losing in Azul, Splendor, and Wingspan. Don’t even get me started on Axis and Allies. My friend Peter and I played in person together the first time I brought it to the table. It was supposed to take all day. He utterly destroyed me in the first hour. Sorry, America, but Japan won World War II after all. We switched to playing online after that. He beat me so badly so many times in a row that we had to switch to playing on the same team against an inadequate computer opponent. Now I get the morale boost of a cooperative win as Peter’s weaker ally. I’m okay with that. Winners write the history books, even if they’re the minor partner. I could use another publishing contract. Call me Winston Churchill.

The cooperative approach proved to be the solution to all my ego problems. Most of my in-person gatherings now focus on games where we’re on the same team. We’re working our way through Gloomhaven, which has more than a hundred scenarios. At our current pace, it will take us about three years to finish. I haven’t told my group that I also bought the expansion. That’s a sure way to lose all my friends at once. We also played the three Pandemic Legacy games, working together to destroy diseases, mutants, or communist depending on the scenario. We make a good team, and it’s fun to win or lose together. When we fail, it’s because the game was unfair, not because I left out one rule that was totally explained in the video I sent out that nobody bothered to watch. Not that that’s ever happened or anything. These cooperative games have saved my win-loss record, especially since, when it’s all of us playing against the board, we don’t feel bad if we cheat a little. We might never lose again.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James