Abalone

I used to think of Abalone as the game for the gap before the RPG group was complete: something already on the table, quietly making use of the waiting. I found it again while clearing things out and handed it to my successor. Now he takes it from the shelf himself and arrives with a challenge. A small box can carry an awful lot of former life.

At the table, its central appeal is the directness of that challenge. You bring it out, sit opposite someone, and the game immediately becomes a little duel. There is no need to assemble an evening around it or reacquaint yourself with a whole fictional world of rules; it is simply there on the shelf, ready when someone wants a match.

The rhythm is just as straightforward in our house: one person calls the other over, they face each other, and the game becomes a brief shared ritual rather than mere time-filling. The interaction is not ornamental. The challenge is the whole point, which explains why a child keeps coming back for another go.

As a blast from the past, it is honest and pleasant, with the rare knack of finding its place in a home without making a fuss. But once I remove memory from the table, I am left with a game that has probably aged a little beyond its best.