Molly House

I saw Cole Wehrle’s name, saw the title, and my brain made one of its remarkably unhelpful leaps towards Thomas Spitzer. I expected a heavy euro: After Pablo sharing a flat with Kohle & Kolonie. Then I opened Molly House and the rulebook stared back. Still, I carried on. Its subject is unusual, its historical material has weight, and it plainly has no interest in being safe.

Its mechanisms are as idiosyncratic as its subject, with a family resemblance to Pax and Arcs but no convenient label to hide behind. The turn flow does not offer a calm, obvious routine to perform; you need to understand what the system is trying to do before you can trust your own moves. Molly House has something to say, but it asks everyone at the table to arrive with a doctorate in its language.

That is where the real interaction lives. It is not enough for you to know what you are doing; everyone else needs to know too, or each turn becomes a group excavation of the rulebook and its possible readings. You will look at one another, discuss it, wonder whether you played it correctly, and receive no great reassurance from the game. For a group ready to take it very seriously, that may be the invitation. For everyone else, it is a fair load to carry.

I respect its nerve, and I can see that it is committed to both its subject and its ideas. But I do not share the view that failing to understand how to play properly leaves the enjoyment untouched. The rest of us will probably choose something with its feet nearer the ground.