Playing Gloomhaven with my dad

My dad loved boardgames. He played all sorts of different boardgames and was always on the lookout for a new one. He favored abstract, strategic games with minimal amounts of luck and lots of possible strategies he could devise and play.

Sometimes he found games such as Twixt, which was perhaps the epitome of abstract strategic games of a certain period in the board gaming world. (It was also the epitome of a game which nobody would ever agree to play more than once.)

At that time, of course, we didn't have the deeply developed worldwide culture of inventing, playing, and sharing board games which arose in the 21st century. There are much more entertaining board games than Twixt nowadays!

During the pandemic years, my dad picked up Gloomhaven, which was possibly the most famous game to come out of the board gaming surge of the last twenty years. Dad was initially interested in Gloomhaven primarily because it was so famous, but he became quite interested in it because it was in the category of cooperative boardgames: in Gloomhaven, all the human players must collaborate to successfully win the game.

My dad particularly liked cooperative boardgames.

Also, dad liked Gloomhaven because I liked Gloomhaven.

I liked Gloomhaven because I had grown up playing computer games like Adventure and Zork and Wizardry and Bard's Tale and Ultima, all those Dungeons and Dragons style games where you build a party and explore the world and have encounters and accomplish quests. Dungeons and Dragons is great but it always succeeds or fails based on the efforts of one person, the Dungeonmaster, who has to do a huge asymmetric amount of work to envision, construct, and facilitate the scenario, while the other players just show up and play. Sometimes you have a great Dungeonmaster, but even then sometimes the Dungeonmaster has an off night. Gloomhaven was like playing Dungeons and Dragons, but you didn't need to have a Dungeonmaster.

But playing Gloomhaven as a true table-top boardgame was a lot of work!

First of all, you have to have a large table. Gloomhaven is an immense game with an enormous amount of physical kit that must be manipulated during the game.

But more importantly, playing the original table-top version of Gloomhaven requires an extensive amount of intricate bookkeeping, in which each play must adjust various tokens and state markers during the playing of their turn in order to keep the game flowing along nicely.

That is, table-top Gloomhaven successfully got rid of the Dungeonmaster, but only by making everyone the Dungeonmaster.

However, it turned out that there was a computerized version of Gloomhaven; even better, it was a very well done adaptation which retained all the fun of playing Gloomhaven while removing all the drudgery.

Conveniently for me, playing the computerized version solved several other problems that I had with Gloomhaven: firstly, we didn't have to leave the physical game set up in the living room, a huge benefit since it took up the whole room and it often took us days to play through a single scenario; secondly, I didn't have to make the 30 minute drive to my parents house just to play some Gloomhaven with my dad, which made it vastly easier for us to fit in some time for game playing and chatting without all the wasted driving time.

The result was that, during the last few years, my dad and I must have played several hundred hours of Gloomhaven together. Amazingly, during that entire time, we never even finished the complete original Gloomhaven campaign, mostly because there were a few scenarios that we just couldn't crack with our party.

We played Gloomhaven faithfully right up until the final few weeks of dad's life, when he was finally just too exhausted to work the computer. At that point I went back to driving over there when I could, and we sat and talked instead.

Over the past few months I've thought a couple times about firing up the game again and finishing off the campaign, playing the entire party by myself. I don't think I'll do that; it's nicer instead to just leave things just as they are in my head.

But I'll remember those years of Gloomhaven for a long, long time.

Happy Father's Day, dad

As my wife observes, this is a year of firsts, and here's one of them.

My parents were never very big on the "Hallmark Holidays", although after I became a father my dad would always remember to send me a Jacquie Lawson greeting card.

My dad wasn't very big on using the phone, either, so often I would call my mom and ask her to hand her phone to dad so I could wish him a happy Father's Day or whatever. He was always polite and returned the favor, though he soon wished to be off the call.

I guess I've become somewhat like that myself; I'm not great on the phone either.

Father's Day often lines up with my birthday, although this year it's a bit off. Either it came early, or I'm running late; probably the latter. A more happier observation is that Father's Day means that we're just coming up on my daughter's wedding anniversary; one of my favorite days!

Well, anyway: happy Father's Day to the fathers in your life, wherever they are.

The Body in the Castle Well: a very short review

I'm reading my way to Bordeaux, trying to get ready for a visit I hope to make to the region sometime soon.

There's a lot to know about Bordeaux, it has centuries, even millenia, of history. Not far from Bordeaux is the Lascaux Cave, where cave paintings believed to be twenty thousand years old have been found.

My dad was a compulsive reader, across a variety of subjects, but mysteries and detective stories were a particular favorite of his. My mom mentioned that, shortly before his death, my dad had been reading his way through Martin Walker's Bruno, Chief of Police series, which are set in the Dordogne region, which runs roughly east from Bordeaux along the Dordogne River.

My dad happened to have just finished The Body in the Castle Well, so I picked up his copy to get a taste for the series.

Walker is primarily a newspaper columnist (he's the US Bureau Chief for The Guardian), and this novel has some of the feel of being written by a journalist. It's well-researched and somewhat encyclopedic, and you get the feeling that Walker seeks to educate you as much as he seeks to entertain you. In this book, we get to learn some art history, and some falconry, and we hear a bit about the ending of French colonialism in Algeria.

With all that history and science tossed in with the detective story, I can see why my dad was very fond of Bruno, Chief of Police.

I'll surely read a few more of Walker's books.

Surfing in Alameda?

An organization called the Neptune Beach Surf Club is proposing to build a Wave Park in Alameda, out in the currently little-used section between Encinal High School and the Alameda Hornet.

Their website features a simple map and some brief descriptions.

The city says that they are exploring the concept.

I've been to that location several times, although not recently. We put in our inflatable kayaks at the boat ramp and in the small protected section of the bay near the boat ramp that's sometimes called Encinal Beach. There's a very-hard-to-find soccer field out there maintained by the Alameda Soccer Club.

It would be good to see continued development and reuse of that part of the city, and something that's water-oriented seems like a natural fit for the city.

My dad embraced science in his healthcare and in his life

In the last 5 years of his life, my dad experienced a lot of complicated health challenges.

In December 2020, my dad contracted COVID-19. This was during the Delta Variant times of the pandemic. The Delta variant was infamous for being just as deadly as the original virus while being much more contagious. That was certainly the case for my father, who had been fanatically careful for the first 11 months of the pandemic and yet somehow fell ill just before New Year's Eve.

Dad was living 450 miles away from me at the time, so we talked about his situation over the phone. (During those days, traveling outside of your county of residence was technically illegal in California, though surely I could have traveled safely.) I managed to order an oximeter online and I taught my dad how he could monitor his blood oxygen levels. On the third day of feeling poorly, he told me that his oxygen level was 82, and I sent him straight to the emergency room. Happily, they were living just down the block from a very fine hospital, and he was immediately admitted and started on a 5 day course of remdesivir. Happily, he tolerated the medicine very well and was soon discharged, still on oxygen, to rebuild his damaged lungs at home.

During this recovery, dad was just as painstaking and detail-oriented as he ever was. He filled page after page in his journals with daily observations of vital information, now augmented with measurements of lung strength taken from a hand-held breathing measurement device that the hospital gave him.

Making notes like this was something he'd been doing for years, as he daily monitored his blood sugar levels to keep an eye out for the diabetes that had killed my aunt at a too-young age.

As the years continued to pass, and my dad battled first Lymphoma, then Brachycardia, then Leukemia, the number of different types of measurements grew and his daily note-taking grew with them. He (and I) became familiar with many new ways that modern medicine can monitor changes in the human body. Some of them were rather tedious, such as getting routine blood draws to look at various measurements of compounds in the blood; others were rather remarkable, such as when he had a small heart monitor taped to his chest for a few weeks while the monitor quietly and painlessly recorded its measurements for later analysis by the cardiologists.

In the end, when the mutated bone marrow cells in his body began to flood his system with damaged blood cells, he knew even before he got the results of the tests; he was just that attuned to his health.

This level of interest in modern medicine was nothing new to my family. When I was very, very young, my parents were at the front of the line to get me vaccinated with brand-new vaccines for polio and smallpox, horrific diseases that had ravaged both of their families in previous generations. They instilled in me a fascination with science and data and rational thinking that has stuck with me though my own lifetime.

I've been thinking a lot about science recently, of course, as it's suddenly forefront on the national agenda. The head of the health division of the national government has said that "vaccinating children is unethical," and the government appears to be moving with breakneck speed to eliminate all science from the federal government.

To be replaced by, ... what? It isn't clear, exactly. I don't know why all these elected leaders fear science and want to abolish it, dumping a hundred years of systematic improvement in the lives of humans around the world into the trash bin for apparently no reason whatsoever.

I know what my father would have thought.

He would have thought they were wrong, and he would have continued taking his measurements and studying his data.

My dad loved to read manuals

My dad loved to read manuals.

As far back as I can remember, whenever we got a new appliance, or a new tool, or a board game, or just about anything that came in a box, my dad would painstakingly start by reading the manual first.

And I do mean reading! The new gizmo would be sitting there in its box, and he would take the manual over to his chair, and sit down, and read the entire thing, cover to cover, before he'd do anything else. Only then would he approach the box again, lift the whatchamacallit out of its box, turn it this way and that way, and try to line it up in his mind with what he had just read in the manual.

In his mind, I think that the manual was the true essence of the thing; the thing itself was just an artifact.

At the holidays, when I ripped off the wrapping paper, I would wonder whether I'd been given something simple enough that I could just start playing with it, or whether my gift was something that came in a box, with a manual, in which case he'd make sure that I found the manual first, and sat down and looked at it, before I could proceed to get to the actual toy itself.

Model ships, Lego kits, even Frisbees or skateboards: "Wait! Read the manual first."

It was a different place and time, I suppose.

People don't read manuals now. If there even is a manual! Usually, at best there is a little slip of paper with a QR code that sends you to a YouTube video.

People don't read the manual; they watch the manual on YouTube.

Or they just take the thing out of the box and plug it in and start pushing buttons.

This change greatly disturbed my dad, and I perhaps noticed it most clearly when he would buy a new videogame for his computer. He loved videogames, and was always looking for a new one to try.

But somewhere along the line, videogames stopped having manuals. Instead, every videogame designer, in some sort of lemming-like mass migration, switched from having a manual to explain how to play their game, to instead having the manual built in to the game itself.

With a modern video game, you just install it and fire it up and start playing. But of course you don't know anything. So the game is carefully designed to start with a series of tutorials, carefully designed so that you think you are playing the game, while in fact you are just progressing through the tutorials.

Think of the start of Skyrim, when you find yourself riding in the back of a wooden cart, being taken down to the town square to be tried in front of the local magistrate. Bit by bit, the game teaches you how to move your character around, to walk and run, to find items and experimentally figure out what they are good for, to engage in dialogue with other characters, to build or buy weapons and armor and equip them, and so forth.

You might spend hours playing the game, when in fact you are still just reading the manual.

This drove my dad crazy! He wanted to read the manual!

Sometimes, he would find that the game included a "help" system, where there was a sort of mini-encyclopedia of short descriptions of the important elements of the game. These help systems were often extensive, with hundreds of individual articles covering all sorts of aspects of the game. They were of course never designed to be a manual, but rather to be a simple in-game reference tool, useful if you'd put the game aside for a few months and were now returning to it, trying to remember the difference between a poleaxe and a halberd, or whatever.

But my dad, if he found such a help system in his new game, would immediately stop playing the initial tutorials. Instead, he would painstakingly go through the entire help system, one article at a time, clicking on each topic. Then he'd copy-and-paste the text (or screenshot it, whatever), and put them all into a Word document, and then he'd print out the entire Word document, often dozens or even hundreds of pages long at this point.

And he'd take the printout, and go sit down in his chair, and read the entire thing, front to back.

How do keelboats sail upwind?

I was pretty sure I understood the basic principles.

Happily, Randall Munroe has clarified them for me!