I’ve always loved games.

I grew up in the 1970s and 80s surrounded by them. Board games were a constant—boxes stacked in closets, missing pieces replaced with coins, rules bent or rewritten depending on who was winning. I played casual Dungeons & Dragons with friends, rolled dice on living room floors, and imagined worlds far bigger than the rooms we were sitting in.

Later, video games took over. RPGs. Sports titles. Consoles that grew faster, flashier, and more immersive. Somewhere in my 20s, probably in the 1990s, board games quietly faded from my life. Not because I stopped liking them. They just stopped being part of my routine.

Video games stayed. Board games didn’t.

Then, about two years ago, my wife’s friend’s husband invited me to a game night—and something clicked.

Since then, I’ve bought around 30 games in the last 18 months and backed another half dozen on Kickstarter. By hardcore hobby standards, those numbers are modest. For me, they represent a genuine obsession—and one that keeps deepening the more I understand why board games work the way they do.

This isn’t just nostalgia. There’s real psychology behind why modern board games are so compelling—and why once you fall back in, it’s hard to stop.

(Tactility, Design, and Embodied Cognition)

One of the biggest shocks returning to board games was the quality.

Opening a modern board game doesn’t feel like opening a toy. It feels like opening a treasure chest.

Thick cardboard. Custom inserts. Sculpted miniatures. Linen-finished cards. Purposeful graphic design. Even the way components are organized tells you this experience has been considered carefully.

From a psychological standpoint, this taps directly into embodied cognition—the idea that our thinking and emotional responses are shaped by physical interaction. Touch matters. Weight matters. Texture matters.

Games like Plunder and especially Return to Dark Tower feel good before you ever take a turn. The tower itself isn’t just a gimmick; it’s a physical presence that creates tension and anticipation the moment it hits the table. Add the Dark Horde expansion and suddenly the game isn’t just something you play—it’s something you engage with.

I’ve played Return to Dark Tower solo and with groups four or five times a week for the last three weeks, and it still feels fresh. Sometimes I open the box without even planning to play, just to interact with it.

Ninety-five percent of the time, that leads to a game.

The other five percent, the experience has already begun.

(Social Bonding and Shared Attention)

I enjoy solo board gaming—largely because I haven’t fully converted my family yet—but nothing compares to a game night.

Board games excel at structured social interaction. They create shared rules, shared goals, and shared consequences. Everyone is present, focused on the same space, the same objects, the same unfolding story.

That’s why a game like Thunder Road: Vendetta has become such a favorite with our group. It’s chaos by design. Plans fall apart instantly. Cars explode. No one pretends they’re in control for long. And because of that, we laugh constantly.

Psychologically, this works because games lower social risk while increasing emotional payoff. You’re allowed to tease, celebrate, complain, and fail—all within a safe, agreed-upon framework.

Add wine and cheese and suddenly it’s not just a game night—it’s a monthly ritual. In a world full of screens and passive interaction, sitting around a table feels almost radical.

(Why Losing Feels Good in Games)

One thing I didn’t realize I was missing until I came back to board games was how good it feels to fail without consequences.

In real life, mistakes carry weight. In games, they carry lessons—or laughter.

Board games create what psychologists might call low-stakes competence loops. You take a risk. You see the outcome. You adjust. You try again. There’s no penalty to your identity, reputation, or security.

This is deeply satisfying, especially as an adult, when opportunities to experiment without real-world cost become increasingly rare.

Whether it’s misjudging a strategy in Planet Unknown or overextending in Return to Dark Tower, the loss doesn’t sting—it invites another attempt.

(Why One Game Is Never Enough)

One of the most surprising aspects of the hobby is its sheer variety.

In a single night, I can play:

• A deck builder like The Star Wars Deck Building Game

• A polyomino puzzler like Planet Unknown

• A classic race-style game like El Dorado

Each one activates a different kind of thinking—spatial reasoning, long-term planning, tactical improvisation, or pure reaction.

Planet Unknown, in particular, hits a perfect balance for me. It’s a puzzle first, a strategy second, and a resource optimization challenge throughout. It’s satisfying solo, but even better with others, where every choice feels just a little more pressured.

What’s fascinating is that board gamers tend to enjoy genres they wouldn’t normally choose. Once you’re in, curiosity replaces preference. That’s a hallmark of openness to experience, a personality trait strongly associated with sustained engagement and creativity.

You’re no longer looking for your game.

You’re looking for what this one does differently.

Looking back, I don’t think board games ever disappeared. I think I stepped out of the room for a while.

While I was gone, the hobby matured. Design improved. Production values soared. Themes broadened. Rules became more intentional and more welcoming.

And when I finally returned, board games offered something I didn’t realize I was missing: presence.

They slow me down. They demand attention. They reward patience. They turn entertainment into an event and play into a shared experience.

For me, this isn’t just about rediscovering a hobby. It’s about reconnecting with something deeply human—touch, focus, risk, laughter, and time spent together around a table.

That’s why I love board games.

And judging by the shelves filling up in my house, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Pete Fletzer is the author of Who Owns the Myth? Star Wars, Fandom, and the Soul of the Saga, a nonfiction exploration of modern fandom, mythmaking, and the evolving relationship between storytellers and audiences. A longtime Star Wars podcaster and host of Around the Galaxy Live, Fletzer blends personal experience, cultural analysis, and decades of professional marketing and communications leadership to examine how belief, trust, and shared stories shape communities. His work focuses on fandom not as conflict, but as a living conversation—one that reveals how modern myths are created, challenged, and ultimately sustained.