Game review 39: Gloomhaven
Not so much a review of Cephalofair Games' slab of a product, more a feverish howl into the existential void in the face of self-induced 'difficult' playing conditions
Idiots abound in the world: those people who attempt to get on trains before everyone has got off; colleagues in meetings who keep asking more questions when it’s home time; everyone during Wimbledon who laughs when a pigeon lands on the court.
Swines the lot of them.
But surely all would be surpassed in the nitwit stakes by a man foolish enough to splash the serious cash on Cephalofair Games’s Gloomhaven – a sprawling, complex, seemingly endless, absolute brick of an RPG game, only surpassed in the physical hugeness stakes by its follow-up, Frosthaven – when the only person he has to play it with is his young daughter.
Its a product so dense, heavy and immersive that, at 22lbs, it probably weighs almost as much as she does.
Unfortunately, I am that idiot.
So, with great trepidation, and with an excitable child menancingly circling this component treasure chest, it’s time to open this potentially horrifying Pandora’s box.
And, predictably, as the chaos erupts around me and I collapse in a sobbing mess, the following witness statement serves not so much as a review, but a warning from the deeply, deeply unwise.
Above is the sight that awaits the unwitting adventurer when Gloomhaven’s box is opened, unleashing the agents of chaos. My mind spins, dizzyingly, and my OCD stings into action: Where do we start? What are all these things? Who’s going to clear up the mess?
I develop a twitch as I rummage through - there’s a board here that serves no purpose other than to stick stickers on when missions are completed.
There are scenario books to wade through. And then there’s the almost unmarked, near identical boxes - which the kid has her beady little eye on.
‘“No, don’t ruin Daddy’s fun,” I can hear myself think as she runs amok in the gamebox – one so heavy that she can’t even lift it! – with all the care and finesse of a Victorian English colonial ransacking a pyramid.’
Oh yes, E is revelling in my misery. She just wants to open all the boxes – this being a legacy game, meaning many are meant for later missions – and plaster all the stickers around the living room.
And who can blame her? “No, don’t ruin Daddy’s fun,” I can hear myself think as she runs amok in the game’s box – one so heavy that she can’t even lift it! – with all the care and finesse of a Victorian English colonial ransacking an unexplored pyramid tomb.
I try to read the rules to the soundtrack of a small screaming banshee, limbs flailing while clutching game pieces, wild with excitement. And fail.
With the added help of a young child delirious with glee at opening a box with, what looks like to her, hundreds of individual toys and games, it takes possibly a full hour until I gather the mind space over the shrieks of delight and the grabbing hands to comprehend how to even start playing.
We pick out the couple of funsters, pictured above, as our playing pieces: a monster-ish warrior and a ratty thief, who E swiftly renames Trevor and Bad Skeleton respectively.
But it’s all a bit too much to take without losing the old sanity. So we leave it to ourselves to develop Trevor and Bad Skeleton’s back stories – friends and room mates who don’t like cracking skulls together, and would rather stay in and play Football Manager but have to do whatever it takes to survive in a late-stage capitalistic society to keep the landlord at bay – and pack away for another day.
So yes, does this need saying? Oh go on: It’s probably not advisable, particularly when you’re an AuDHD individual with complex anxiety issues, to spend your hard-earned cash on a bewilderingly massive and complex game when the only outcome will be a nearby child, whooping deliriously with excitement, desecrating the adventure before it even begins, with your mind melting at the enormity of it all.
When a peaceful few hours come, there is rule-book reading to be done before this can begin again. A lot of reading.
But. I’m quite intrigued by Trevor and BS. And I hope, over the years, the pair of us can settle down and explore how they get on. Slowly. But not very surely.
And yes, I’ll probably still get Frosthaven. But we might finally see sense and try out Jaws of the Lion – Gloomhaven’s smaller, punchier companion game – first.
E’s review (well, initial impressions)
What do you like best about the game
“It has a massive box and it has like a hundred things in there. Those little pieces in the box and they have little cards that you can open.”
Is it difficult?
“No, but it is a bit difficult to set up.”
Marks out of 10?
“210/10”
My review (initial impressions only)
Advised age range
14+. Not 5+. Obviously
Set-up time
God knows. I imagine that with a few experienced fellow gamers, it’ll be a lot quicker than when trying to read a vast rule book by yourself while a child demands: “can I open this box? What about this one? Can I put this sticker on my door?”
Cost
I snagged this on sale for £90. And that, it seems, is cheap.
Practicality
lol. You might need to build a new wing of the house to store it in. And you’ll need some heavy-duty organisational skills to not get anxiety attacks about opening the wrong boxes in the wrong order and wading through all the game gear.
Fun for parents
Again, you’re asking the wrong frazzled parent. It looks magnificent. And there will be the day when the pair of us can have the brain capacity to both play it and explore Gloomhaven together. Today is not that day though.
Maybe then I’ll feel able to score it.