Flash Review — Weather Machine

Players: 1-4

Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: [unplayed]
Age: 14+
Playtime: 60-150 min
Complexity: 8.5/10

While Professor Lativ’s wondrous invention is successful in controlling local weather phenomena, the machine also causes extreme “butterfly effect” disruptions elsewhere. There is much to do!

A new game by Vital Lacerda is a yearly cause for celebration within my gaming group. The Lisbon-born (Lisborn?) designer has a knack for coming up with heavy games that play like a massive, well-oiled clock: each element interacts superbly with everything else, and all you need to do is figure out how best to pull the levers at your disposal in order to achieve a resounding success.
Ha.

In Weather Machine, players secure government subsidies, expand their workshops, run experiments using Professor Lativ’s machine, build new prototypes to fix the screw-ups caused by those experiments, publish their findings in academic papers, and build cute little robots to help them do it all. (You can even quote previous papers on the same topic to help get yours published. How about that?)

As you can expect with Lacerda, the design reuses some of his mechanical darlings while injecting novelty in other areas. Overall, the game is not that difficult… but it’s a real challenge to learn, and even worse to teach. (God help me.) Hence my 8.5 complexity rating. All I can say is, don’t give up: the end result is well worth the effort. There’s a special satisfaction to be found in seeing all those intricate mechanics come together and WORK. Plus the little gears (even the cardboard ones—I think the metal upgrades are overkill) are just a joy to play with, and the entire package is gorgeous.

For the Lacerda fans out there, Weather Machine feels to me closest to Kanban out of all his previous designs—if that can help push you off the fence.

Sadly I cannot comment on the solitaire module provided with the game, as I have not had a chance to play it yet. But it’s pretty intricate and not for the faint of heart.

Most easily forgotten rule: When you build the prototype (in the R&D department), all of the gears you use must come from the same row in your workshop.

# # #

Flash Review — Great Western Trail: Argentina

Players: 1-4
Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Good
Age: 12+
Playtime: 75-150 min
Complexity: 8/10

Just a few weeks ago, I wrote a flash review of the excellent second edition of Great Western Trail, the original version of which had earned first prize in my Top 10 for 2016.
Now comes a new setting with slightly modified mechanics, and I’m falling in love all over again.

This time around, you’re driving cattle in Argentina, intent on getting those cows aboard ships bound for Europe. Once again, the board depicts the land players need to traverse on their way to Buenos Aires, with buildings that offer new actions as well as some familiar ones, and farmers instead of bandits. Incidentally, players can help those farmers if they have sufficient strength (a new resource) on their cattle cards and player boards; in return, farmers can be enlisted as workers to help supply the players with grain.

Grain is also a new resource: whereas in GWT you pay money to ship cattle to faraway cities, now you need to pay grain to load them onto ships (placing one of your discs on the ship you selected). At regular intervals, groups of ships depart for Europe, carrying with them player discs they’ll drop in three major ports. From that point on, whenever you’re shipping cows, you can also perform an “extra delivery”—provided you can pay for it in grain—that reuses one of your discs now in Europe, for a juicy bonus in points or pesos.

GWT Argentina is certainly different from its older sibling, but not different enough to warrant owning both versions of the game, unless you’re a GWT maniac. But if you enjoy the original, I can’t imagine you wouldn’t like this new spin on the same robust system. (I just wish the enclosed plastic tray was usable; as it stands you can’t even keep it if you aspire to put everything back in the box at the end of the game.)
The solo module introduces Pedro, a bot with its own cards and little player board who plays against you. Pedro can operate according to three different difficulty settings; either way, you'll soon learn to hate him (in a good way!).

After a few plays, I think Argentina is superior to the classic version, but I’m not ready to get rid of my beloved GWT just yet. What I am ready for, though, is the final title in the trilogy, coming out sometime in 2023—Great Western Trail: New Zealand.

Can’t wait to start herding those wild kiwis. Hee haw!

Most easily forgotten rule: If you have exhaustion cards in your hand when you reach Buenos Aires, you remove them entirely from your deck—you don’t just discard them.

# # #

Flash Review — Heat: Pedal to the Metal

Players: 1-6
Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Outstanding
Age: 10+
Playtime: 30-60 min
Complexity: 5/10

It’s Formula 1 racing in the ‘60s, and you’re at the wheel of a powerful machine barrelling down the speedway. Everywhere you look, the track is filled with brightly colored cars. But hey, what’s one more hairpin turn at breakneck speed?

Heat comes with four different race tracks, six cute little cars and a deck of speed cards for every player, with each card showing a different speed—from 0 all the way to 5. The basic game couldn’t be simpler: shift up or down into the gear you want, play that many cards (from 1 to 4), and move your car as far as it’ll go without getting blocked. If you negotiate a corner during your move, check your speed (total value of the cards you played) against the corner’s speed limit, and pay 1 heat card for each speed increment over that limit.
(You’re rounding a 3-corner at speed 7? That just cost you four heat cards.)

Those heat cards start on your player board and represent your engine’s capabilities to “give a little more.” You begin the game with six, and gradually move them (“spend” them) to your discard pile to move faster or reach a gear you couldn’t normally shift into, in addition to overshooting corners as described above.
You’ll want to rid your deck of heat cards for two reasons: because those become clutter in your hand (possibly causing an overheat situation where your car doesn’t move at all for a turn) but also because if you no longer have heat cards on your player board, you can’t ask your engine for that extra kick you just needed to pass that green bastard on the straightaway. So make sure you shift down to gear 1 or 2 once in a while: those let you discard heat cards back to your player board. (And if you can time that with slowing down for a difficult corner, all the better!)

The game also features a solo mode where the flip of a single card drives all of the pilotless cars (from one to all 6, which means you could just watch the race unfold if you feel particularly lazy one evening). And they’re competitive, too! So much so that there’s no reason not to use a full complement of cars on the track, no matter the number of human players. Even the solo races are proving fun and tense, which is no small achievement.

And there are more options to explore: the garage module (customize your car!), the weather module (you afraid of a little snow at 290 km/h?), and the championship system (one race isn’t the whole story…).

I’m a big racing game fan, and Heat just might make it all the way to the top of my list. It manages to strike a death-defying balance between simplicity, meaningful decisions and excitement, all the while making the whole thing feel like a race. I can’t recommend it enough.

Most easily forgotten rule: You can decide to use adrenaline before or after you boost.

# # #

Lucas Land: Stag Night

 (Previous chapter: It's in the Cards)

“Hey, wanna go see Raiders of the Lost Ark on Friday night?”

Standing tall behind an actual vineyard, Skywalker Sound is a big winery-looking, red brick building that’s home to everything and anything that has to do with sound within Skywalker Ranch. Recording studios (large enough to hold an orchestra), foley studios (footsteps and slamming doors), mixing studios, editing suites, plus a litany of actual offices... you name it, it’s all in there.

And there’s one more thing you can find here: a private screening room called the Stag Theater. With its 300-soul capacity, it’s about the size of your average multiplex theater. And it’s not especially luxurious either, instead coming across as a very nice room, but nothing spectacular. The truth is, you can’t see what’s mind-blowingly incredible about the Stag.
But you sure as hell can hear it.

Back in 1983, Lucasfilm deployed the THX system to ensure that showings of Return of the Jedi would conform to certain audio standards. So in high-end theaters, the movie soundtrack sounded exactly the way the mixing engineer intended—or as close to it as technical limitations and architectural concerns allowed. The system took its name from George Lucas’s first feature film, THX 1138, but also from its inventor’s namesake, hence the Tomlinson Holman Xperiment.

(During my orientation day at Lucasfilm, a sweet HR lady asked my small group of new employees if anyone knew how the THX system got its name. A few hands went up, and when one of them was selected to offer an answer—THX 1138—all the others fell back down, deflated. The cocky, 25-year-old me had been waiting for just that moment to raise my own hand, and mention Tomlinson Holman when called upon. Our HR lady was quick to congratulate me on my erudite answer, but a quick look around the room sufficed to confirm that I had just marked my territory with the smell of absolute dorkness.)

THX went on to certify more than theaters: home sound systems, computer sound cards, physical movie releases (VHS, Laserdiscs, DVDs...) and so on. But its original intent had always been the theater experience. And so the Stag was built around THX.

Think of the Stag Theater as the king of THX: it’s the reference theater, built according to the exact specifications the THX system requires. Its equipment not only provides the greatest surround sound you can experience at the movies, but it also perfectly reproduces what the mixing engineer heard in his or her studio. In other words, the Stag is what every other movie theater around the world tries to be. And if they come close enough, they get the THX certification.
So you can imagine what it sounds like when you step into that sonic temple. The room is neither too muffled, nor too echoey; neither too velvety, nor too wooden. It’s just a perfect balance between liquid and solid. Pure aural bliss.

When I walked in there for the first time—with permission to take a quick peek on my way to lunch—the whole thing felt like a religious experience. My own breathing sounded like the most expertly mixed gust of wind in the history of cinema, my own footsteps altogether like the start of something wondrous and the end of everything. It brought tears to my eyes and I never wanted to leave.
(Those who know me and my hyper-acute hearing will tell you I don’t exaggerate about that stuff: nowhere else have I heard such perfect acoustics, even when the room was empty and no sound was playing. It was beauty at a level that causes pain.)

About a month into my Lucasfilm tenure, a coworker asked me if I wanted to go see Raiders of the Lost Ark with him at the end of the week. He proceeded to explain that, once in a while, Lucasfilm held screenings for employees... at the Stag Theater. Not usually LFL productions, either: it just happened that this time around they were showing Raiders, one of my favorite movies.

So, would I go?
A few expletives later, we had a date.

Friday night couldn’t swing by fast enough. When it finally did, I showed up early to make sure I could sit in the exact center of the Stag Theater, grabbing the sweet spot to end all sweet spots. The room filled up quickly, sometimes with faces whose owners I’d had a chance to meet, but usually with friendly strangers I hoped I would get to know. (It would soon dawn on me that my role as internal reporter meant that I could meet whomever I wanted on Skywalker Ranch—though I did infiltrate ILM a few times—but I hadn’t yet made that realization.)

Right before the movie started, I looked ahead and noticed I was sitting behind George Lucas. (I would later hear that Steven Spielberg was supposed to join him for the showing, but couldn’t make it at the last minute.) He was actually one seat over on my left, which meant that during the entire evening, I watched Raiders with one eye on the screen, and one eye on George. I saw him smile, nod his head, then press his lips together and furrow his brow, in sync with what I assumed were scenes he was still enjoying—almost 20 years down the line—and others he wished had turned out better. (He reacted strongly to the end sequence where Nazi heads melt and explode, but whether his body language expressed revulsion or pride, I’ll never know.) He would sometimes lean over to laugh or whisper something in producer Rick McCallum’s ear, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Remember we were watching this thunderous adventure in the Stag Theater, where the soundtrack was LOUD yet perfectly defined. I had frankly never heard a movie sound like that, and I fear I might there and then have forever damaged my aural enjoyment of cinema: it would all be downhill going forward. From the rumble of that giant boulder bearing down on Indiana Jones, all the way to the hissing of snakes (so many snakes!) and the crack of our archaeologist’s whip, every frequency was just right, everything mixed together into the perfect mélange. I felt enthralled, as if some alchemical process had transmuted sound into a hypnotic compound delivered straight into my brain.

There was a round of applause at the conclusion of the movie—on that ominous shot of an endless warehouse where the titular ark is re-buried, this time amongst a million anonymous crates—and every single spectator remained in their seat until the last note of the end credits had died down. (Which it did with perfect grace.)
As the lights came on, we all stood, George turned around while putting on his sports jacket—it was a chilly evening—and we nodded a greeting to each other. I blinked hard: George Lucas had gestured a “hello” at me after a showing of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I said something—I like to tell myself it was “Still a great movie!” or some other enthusiastic compliment, but to tell the truth I can’t remember what crawled out from between my lips. It might not even have been intelligible: George smiled politely and we all ambled towards the exit.

The hallway between the actual theater and the exterior door only took a moment to cross, but for that brief swatch of eternity, I forgot where I stood: I was just one moviegoer amongst many, walking out after an entertaining evening. So when I stepped outside and looked around, the realization that I was at Skywalker Ranch hit me like a road sign flung around by a tornado.
Wonders within wonders.

I would soon find exciting new reasons to go back to the Stag, but as a first introduction, it left a mark I don't think will ever wash away.

 

(Next chapter: ID Please)

(Full series here)

 

 

# # #

Flash Review — Brothers at War: 1862

Players: 2
Age: 14+
Playtime: 60-240 min
Complexity: 8.5/10

Over the years, I played a lot of games covering the American Civil War. Many were excellent, but most proved too difficult to crack for the average boardgamer out there. (Hence my ongoing silence about those games in my flash reviews.) Brothers at War stands out in that crowd: not only does it run on an intuitive and exception-free engine, but it also features a host of short scenarios that will make newcomers feel welcome instead of sending them screaming into the night.

Those scenarios—there are 13 of them in total—pit Union and Confederate brigades against each other on four different maps: Antietam, South Mountain, Mill Springs and Valverde. The hexes are big, the counters on the map are few, and the whole thing is powered by a chit-pull activation system. This means that a cardboard chit is selected at random, and the identity of that chit determines which brigade gets to act. That brigade’s various units might move, fire at the enemy, or assault an adjacent hex—a dangerous proposition, but you know, desperate times call for crazy fools who get the job done.

One of the game’s innovations concerns that chit-pull mechanic. In classic chit-pull designs, each used chit is set aside before moving on to the next one, and once two Time chits (out of two or three in the pool) make an appearance, the turn is over. In Brothers at War, however, a turn starts with just one Time chit in the pool, and each chit drawn from the pool is placed on the next space of the activation track. Many of those spaces are blank, but some will grant players additional strategy cards (useful to surprise your opponent with a twist they were hoping wouldn’t come), while other spaces will throw an additional Time chit into the pool, increasing the odds of the turn screeching to a halt next time a chit gets fished out of the pool.
And the fact that each map comes with its own activation track really helps give each battle a unique vibe, with a distinctive ebb and flow. Have Time chits added lazily to the pool, and you get a drawn out engagement; but make sure the Time chits get thrown in at a furious pace, and you end up with that snowball feeling of a battle, where the end is always around the next corner—and will your artillery cross that river in time? (I’m looking at you, Valverde!)

Brothers at War doesn’t get talked about much, and it deserves a much better fate.
I heartily recommend it, whether you’re a seasoned veteran or a wet-behind-the-ears recruit still struggling to load their musket rifle.

Most easily forgotten rule: An attacked unit gets one additional save roll if its attacker moved before firing at it.

# # #

Flash Review — Great Western Trail (2nd edition)

Players: 1-4
Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Good
Age: 12+
Playtime: 75-150 min
Complexity: 8/10

You’re a cowboy driving cattle through the old west, hoping to reach Kansas City with a great herd you can turn into a tidy profit. But the road to riches is rife with hazards, bandits, and difficult decisions at every turn.

The main board depicts the territory players need to cross in order to deliver their cattle; different paths offer different options and challenges, ultimately all leading to Kansas City. Players also have their own boards, used to track their evolving capabilities throughout the game. As for the herd itself, it’s represented by a deck of cards – one cow to a card – that players will manipulate and refine to yield the most bucks come delivery time.

Great Western Trail is both a deck-building game (where you add to and tweak your stack of cow cards) and a worker placement game, albeit with only one worker per player: that worker moves forward along the chosen path and activates one or more of the actions available on the spot it reaches. You can purchase more cattle, hire helpers, move your train forward (to deliver to cities that are further away and more lucrative), build buildings (that help you and/or hinder your opponents), upgrade train stations to earn precious bonuses, and more.
When time runs out, the player who’s amassed the most points – through a variety of means – is declared winner.

Great Western Trail was my game of the year back in 2016, and it’s still one of my favorites. The new edition rebalances a few things that are almost enough to make me want to buy it a second time, but the original remains excellent, and should serve my wrangling needs for another good long while.
The two main changes introduced here are the orange cows (cards you can upgrade to a higher value each time you deliver them to Kansas City) and the solo module, driven by a deck of cards that let Sam the bot go about its business and get in your way.

Whatever edition you decide to play, the game is great (it’s in the title!) and fun, it moves at a brisk pace and never feels quite the same from one session to the next. Saddle up!

Most easily forgotten rule: While purchasing cattle, you can use one of your cowboys to add two new cattle cards to the market.

Flash Review — Cosmic Encounter

Players: 3-5
Age: 12+
Playtime: 60-120 min
Complexity: 5/10

You’ve heard of it, you might even have played it: the game’s been around forever in various incarnations, starting with Eons Publishing back in 1977. The current edition is from Fantasy Flight Games (illustrated above), which is not only still in print – 12 years down the line! – but just got a seventh expansion in the form of Cosmic Odyssey.

With the right crowd, Cosmic Encounter is an absolute riot; there’s a reason it’s been reprinted and refreshed countless times since its inception. And whereas the original could overstay its welcome, the modern version makes it possible for five experienced players to get it all done in less than an hour.
(Of course, if you start piling various optional modules on top of the base game, your cosmic mileage may vary.)

The base game’s overview is ludicrously simple, to the point of sounding almost asinine.

• Each player represents an alien race vying for cosmic supremacy.
• On your turn, you’re told which opponent to attack; you then pick one of their four planets as your target.
• You commit 1 to 4 ships to the attack and invite some players (or all, or none) to join you, while the defender does the same.
• You and your opponent each play an attack card: each participant adds their card’s value to the number of ships on their side, and the higher total wins. Losing ships are sent to the trash, while a victorious attacker earns one colony on the target planet (and so do their allies!).
• First player to establish five colonies wins the game.

Simple, right?
Except that the game throws every monkey wrench it can in its own cogs, which – again, given the right crowd – turns Cosmic Encounter into something that feels like a hilarious, semi-tactical party game.

For starters, each player gets to use their own, personal alien power, and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM BREAKS THE GAME. (Really: When players read out loud what their powers do, heads start shaking around the table, because the powers are clearly out of whack. All of them.)
Also, the deck is littered with crazy cards that do all sorts of things, such as canceling another player’s power, making the lower total win, adding trashed ships to the fight, switching out dying ships with an opponent’s… And many of those cards you can play when you’re not even involved in the current encounter.
(“I thought you said you wanted to remain neutral here?!”
“I say a lot of things.”)

Backstabbing is so rampant and expected that you can’t help but feel disappointed when nothing of the sort happens. And of all the times I’ve played this – a lot of sessions – only a handful of games did not end in an upset. Those were the boring ones.

If you can handle chaos and a few sharp knives between your shoulder blades, give Cosmic Encounter a shot. I doubt it’ll be your last.

Most easily forgotten rule: If you fail your first encounter, you don’t get a second one.

# # #

Flash Review — Nemesis

Players: 1-5
Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Great
Age: 12+
Playtime: 90-180 min
Complexity: 8/10

Your big starship is slowly making its way across the blackness of space, hopefully pointed at Earth, and hopefully with its engines in good running order. But menacing creatures are popping up all over the place, and what do you know – not everyone seems to be working towards a common goal…

I resisted playing this game for a while: it seemed to me like a cheap Alien knockoff. Instead, I played a host of other games, just because they had the official Alien logo stamped on the box – and they all sucked.
Then I gave in and tried Nemesis and realized I had been a fool.
THIS is the Alien boardgame you’ve been waiting for, and it’s got everything you want. Super strong theme, cool mechanics, with dangerous creatures lurking around every corner, and tension that oozes out of your ears from beginning to end.

You’ll explore a darkened ship, repair whatever’s broken, put out fires that always seem to flare up at the worst possible time, keep the ship running, and fight nightmarish monsters – or die trying. (Most probably the latter.) Combat is fast, simple, and not always effective. So keep quiet as you explore the bowels of the ship…

Each player has their own objective, which might – or not – work with whatever their crewmates need to accomplish. This makes Nemesis a semi-coop game, where working together is paramount to survival… until a certain point.
I mean, I don’t normally enjoy launching my escape pod while watching a fellow crew member being torn limb from limb, but if that bastard’s objective was to make sure I didn’t survive the game, then he probably deserved his horrible and bloody fate.

Sure, you could always fight your way to the generator room and flip the self-destruct switch. But will you make it out alive before the clock runs out and the whole thing becomes a cloud of debris?

Nemesis is an astounding experience, and I’ll never turn down a session.
The solo mode doesn’t disappoint: it uses a different set of objectives, but otherwise the game remains the same. Which is to say, as tough as it is satisfying.

Most easily forgotten rule: Characters get wounded by fire only if they end their turn (not round) in a burning room.

# # #

Flash Review — Boonlake

Players: 1-4

Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Good
Age: 14+
Playtime: 80-160 min
Complexity: 8.5/10

There’s much to do in the abandoned region of Boonlake: exploring, settling, breeding cattle, hiring helpers, sailing, building, modernizing… What will you tackle first?

In addition to a central board depicting the virgin territory of Boonlake (revealed and built throughout the game with hex tiles), each player has their own personal board where they can navigate between production sites to ensure a constant flow of much needed resources, where they track developments and advances that’ll net them juicy bonuses, and where actual levers that they acquired during the game can be pulled for extra actions or other special effects.

There’s also a delightful “flowing river” action board with each action represented by a tile; unchosen actions flow downstream to be worth more when a player finally decides to pick them.

Boonlake is a heavy strategy game full of tough decisions, and where selecting an action tile allows everyone to do something, while giving you a little more (‘cause it’s your turn, after all). I especially love the scoring tiles you can score when you feel like it: if you score them later, they’ll be worth more points, but they’ll also cost you a heftier penalty if it turns out you can’t meet the ever-increasing requirements.

The solo module is a slightly intricate affair (with a dedicated AI board!) that simulates an opponent getting in your way. This one works better than many systems of its kind.

Most easily forgotten rule: If you build a settlement in a region where you already have one, you must pay (lose) 5 points.

# # #

Flash Review — Messina 1347

Players: 1-4
Works well with just 2: Yes!
Solo quality: Good
Age: 14+
Playtime: 60-140 min
Complexity: 7.5/10

Messina is assaulted by the black plague, and you – along with other noble families – attempt to rescue citizens and eventually rebuild the city itself.

A modular arrangement of large hex tiles represents the city, and each turn a clever “population wheel” drops citizens (aristocrats, craftsmen and nuns) in different areas… along with the dreaded black cubes that seem to follow them everywhere. Even the boats that unload their merchandise at the dock disgorge more of the plague unto the unsuspecting populace.

Place your meeples on hexes to rescue the citizens there, fight the plague with fire, build accommodations for your refugees, and generate points as best you can.
Sick citizens go to your quarantine cabins (and can produce resources if said cabins are upgraded) while healthy citizens are put to work in your estate, before possibly going back to Messina and begin repopulating. (Yes, even the nuns.)

Your actions will allow you to advance on three different tracks, the steps of which earn players more points, resources, and profitable opportunities otherwise unattainable.

Messina 1347 is fun and clever, scales nicely from 2 to 4 players, and has a “shuffle the action tiles and flip one” solo module that tells you what your virtual opponent does each turn, which presents a nice challenge. Oh, and the cutest rat meeples this side of the pond.

HOWEVER the English rulebook that comes with the game is vague and muddy in a few areas. So I recommend you print out the errata file I compiled and uploaded to BGG. The game is well worth it.
https://boardgamegeek.com/filepage/245904/errata-clarifications-unofficial


Most easily forgotten rule: At the end of each turn, citizens still present on a hex with a plague cube die (remove them from the board).



# # #

Lucas Land: It's in the Cards

(Previous chapter: In the Belly of the Beast)

“Jim will see you now.”

These momentous words were uttered by Jim’s assistant Chris(tine) Butler—who would in time become a dear friend of mine—as I tried not to squirm too much in my chair right outside of the boss’s office.

Remember I had been flown all the way from Montreal to San Francisco and spent the morning going through four interviews on the hallowed grounds of Skywalker Ranch, before coming to a rest on the doorstep of the Marketing VP—the guy who would make the ultimate decision as to my fate within the Lucasfilm organization.

In a late-nineties world that was just learning to harness the power of the Internet, my future position as lead writer (and soon-to-be editor) of starwars.com fell somewhere between the Marketing and Web teams. That’s one reason the interview process was so grueling to begin with: managers tried to see whether the fresh recruit knew what to make of that new tool, how to use it to maximum effect, what pitfalls to avoid, and the kind of future-proofing the entire online enterprise might require—because there were myriad things in that area they didn’t quite know themselves. (Frankly, I wasn’t too sure about most of that stuff, but I believe I succeeded in selling my abilities well enough for everyone to trust that what I didn’t know, I would quickly figure out.)
They also needed to ensure I was someone who knew and loved Star Wars well enough, but that I would know not to behave like a delirious fanboy around the place, and could keep a professional composure around celebrities I might pass by on the Ranch, or else directly interact with in the course of my reportorial duties. (I came the closest to losing it when, half a year later, I spent an afternoon with legendary sound designer Ben Burtt in his Skywalker Sound studio—a story for another day.) They wanted to pick the right addition to their very exclusive family, and I couldn’t blame them. But it made the whole thing nerve wracking in the extreme.

When David West Reynolds, Steve Sansweet and I got back from lunch, the VP of Marketing was in the thick of things with some other concern; it sounded like he hadn’t even left his office to have a bite. By that point I could hardly breathe, so I asked if there was time for me to get back outside and clear my head a little before the big interview. Sansweet nodded with a smile: “Of course, kid.”
(He still calls me “kid” to this day, and I’ve racked up 49 revolutions around the sun at the time of this writing. Whenever Han Solo says it to Luke Skywalker in one of the Star Wars movies, I hear my friend Steve.)

I quickly went down the Brook House exterior staircase and took a few steps towards a copse of trees before the sight of the Main House stopped me dead in my tracks. I had laid eyes on the faux Victorian beauty many times since my arrival earlier that morning, but now it was talking to me.
And it was telling me I had already won.
Not that earning the position was a certainty, of course. But whether or not this adventure turned into a job, I had been flown to Lucasfilm on George’s dime, and I was standing right smack in the middle of Skywalker Ranch, that mythical place that’s never open to the public. How many people get to experience that? Up until a few weeks prior, I had been wondering if I’d ever get a chance to visit the Ranch in any capacity. And now I was there, magically transported into the heart of all things Star Wars and Indiana Jones, two universes that had fueled my childhood.
I believe that’s what saved me—the thought that even given a catastrophic outcome (not getting the job), I had accomplished something I never quite believed would happen. I started breathing again, I felt my entire body relax, and I walked back to the Brook House with renewed confidence.

Chris smiled at me as soon as I reached the mezzanine where Jim Ward’s office was located. “Have a seat. Shouldn’t take long.”
I sat in the chair she was nodding at, attempting to look cool and comfortable. The boss was still on the phone, sounding as agitated as when I’d left; I did my best to blank that out. Against the opposite wall stood a pristine Star Wars pinball machine, no doubt a gift from the manufacturer, and one that nobody ever used. Despite being plugged in and fully functional, its role was decorative—something I would eventually come to change with regular Friday pinball tournaments. (I only ever won a couple of them.)
Then the conversation on the other side of the heavy wooden door ceased, Chris got a quick call at her desk, and she turned to me.

“Jim will see you now.”

Back then Jim Ward was a beast of a man: tall, big and with a voice to make Zeus himself shake in his sandals. Saying he made an impression is selling the experience short. (He has since slimmed down a bit, which I’m sure doesn’t take anything away from his formidable presence.)  He also had smart, piercing blue eyes that connected with anyone he crossed paths with. A veteran of Apple, Nike and Microsoft, Jim didn’t take bullshit from anyone, and certainly didn’t spread any of it around. The first time you shook hands with him—when his large and powerful mitt swallowed your fingers whole—you knew the man was the real deal. You could quite literally feel it.

“Have a seat!”

We sat on a pair of short couches that flanked an elongated coffee table, between Jim’s desk and a small conference table. It wasn’t a large office by any means, but a comfortable one, with some nice windows and a small refreshments fridge in one corner. As with every enclosed space on the Ranch, it looked and felt much more like a living room than an office.

By that point the calming effect of my walk outside was starting to fade out like an 80s pop song, but Jim wasted no time putting me at ease. He proceeded to tell me about himself, asked about my studies (philosophy & literature!), my love of Star Wars, my trip to Tunisia, the morning’s four job interviews... and then pointed to a stack of Star Wars CCG cards on the coffee table between us.
Which I had noticed the instant I walked into his office, to be sure.
I thought Jim was following up on the Tunisia question, how the results of that game’s world championship had whisked me away to northern Africa, and so on. But that’s not what he had in mind.

I would later understand that everyone before Jim had vetted me on pretty much everything they needed to confirm about my abilities. The one, final matter keeping Jim on the fence was my capacity to clearly express complex concepts in English—because I had been raised in French. And the way he decided to go about figuring this out told me a whole lot about the man I was about to start working for.

“I never play games, I just don’t have the time for it,” Jim said. “So I’d like you to teach me—a complete outsider—how to play this.”

And so it was that my fifth and final interview involved teaching the Marketing VP of Lucasfilm the rules of the strategy game that had brought me there in the first place. To paraphrase an oft-quoted line from the original Star Wars movie, the circle was now complete.

It went splendidly: years of teaching all kinds of games to all sorts of strangers had prepared me for this like nothing else could have. And while I’m not sure Jim grasped every nuance of that rather complex card game, he seemed to understand the core concepts and some of the strategy.
At the end of my presentation, he stood up, shook my hand once more and thanked me for teaching him. (How often do you hear something like that in a job interview?)

“We’ll be in touch.”

A few hours later, while I was enjoying an early evening at my friend (and future coworker) David’s place about 30 minutes away from Skywalker Ranch, the phone rang and David picked up. He went through a series of “yeses,” “okays” and “got its” before hanging up and turning to me with a straight face. “The job is yours if you want it,” he announced, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree.
IF I wanted it? I’d never wanted anything that badly in my life.

* * *

The next few weeks flew by in a blur. I had to get ready to move, say goodbye to my old life and prepare to start a new one, and go through the legal process of earning the right to live and work in the US of A. Which boiled down to Lucasfilm needing to demonstrate that nobody else in America could do the job (!), and my having to wait for the immigration department to approve my papers—at the airport, while I sat in the adjoining room (!!)—and grant me a work visa. (I believe I sweated more during the half hour I waited there than during my entire day of job interviews at Lucasfilm.)

It all worked out in the end, with Lucasfilm not only paying for my relocation (which included movers packing up all of my stuff and loading it onto an 18-wheeler that would meet me in San Francisco a month down the line), but also setting me up with a hotel room and a rental car for a few weeks, until I could find an apartment and acquire my own vehicle.

I showed up at the Skywalker Ranch gate—on my own—for the first time on a sunny Thursday morning in the early autumn of northern California, having just driven through a forest of giant redwoods where they shot the speeder bike chase sequence for Return of the Jedi. The simple fact that the guard at the gate let me through was exhilarating enough, but the sentiment paled in comparison to the bone-rattling thrill I felt driving out onto the grounds of the Ranch.
I had made it.
Yet, despite everything I had to brave to win my small place inside George’s empire, it was clear to me that my Lucasfilm adventure was just getting started. I had an entire universe waiting for me.

My old Mazda 626 parked under the Carriage House, I walked across the Ranch’s backyard and made my way to the Brook House. My Brook House, I found myself trying to think. I still felt like an impostor, mind you, but I was working hard to convince my stunned brain that I belonged in that fantastical, otherworldly place.
As I got close enough to hear the titular brook trickling under the building, David stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. His mouth broke into a gleaming smile as I climbed the steps that would take me to my office and my first day of work as a Lucasfilm employee; his extended right hand seemed all at once like an offer to help vanquish the few remaining stairs that separated us, and a congratulatory demonstration.
I can still remember the look in his eyes when I reached the top of the staircase and took his hand. He only said, “Welcome home.”
And then we went inside.

(Next chapter: Stag Night)

(Full series here)

# # #

Lucas Land: In the Belly of the Beast

(Previous chapter: The Call)

I've already explained how strange twists in my life made it so that in the late nineties, I got invited to fly from Montreal to San Francisco and interview for the position of web writer on starwars.com—at a time when most people would have asked, “What the hell kind of a job is that?”
This chapter is all about actually getting there.

My friend David West Reynolds—an archaeologist who had about a decade on me—picked me up at my hotel on that fateful Friday morning (in his Delorean, I’ll have you remember), just north of San Francisco, and drove me straight to Skywalker Ranch for my five interviews. Five. Interviews.
He knew the way very well: he’d been working there for about a year, shouldering the growing responsibilities of starwars.com’s web editor. I’m sure I was trying to admire the rolling landscape as our time machine snaked its way up the hillside that was about to change the course of my life—it was September, when everything’s in full bloom over there—but I can’t remember a thing. I was petrified.
We must have talked: I must have asked questions, looking for any edge with which to arm myself in order to survive the ordeal that day had in store for me. Maybe we listened to some music? I’m telling you, no idea. Whatever transpired in that mythical car, it went into one ear and evaporated before it could even make it out the other one. (I still feel a pang of nervousness as I’m typing this, more than 20 years after the fact.)

At the tail end of a trip that couldn’t have lasted more than 30, maybe 45 minutes, Reynolds pulled up to a nondescript wooden gate and touched a magnetic card to a reader. I watched as the bulky barrier opened without a sound, swinging on massive, oily hinges. The address was 5858 Lucas Valley Road.
I am not kidding.
To be fair, that road had been so named back in the 1800s, an eon before some young filmmaker would hit it out of the ballpark with his little space opera movie, and build up the scratch needed to purchase 4,700 acres of prime, northern California land. Even so, that name was a portent of things to come. And if there were any doubt in my mind as to my destination, everything around me was setting me straight, right down to the goddamn local toponymy.

A dozen meters in stood a small, unassuming gatehouse with a friendly looking security guy. He stepped into the morning sun with a smile on his face and addressed my driver by his first name. “Hey David! Who d’we have here?” Reynolds smiled back. “Francis Lalumière—he should be on your list. He’s here for a bunch of job interviews.” The affable guard, built like a college wrestler with a neck that could stop a baseball bat, fetched a clipboard from his desk and looked me up. “Right! You’re all set. You can go in. Have a nice day.” The Delorean lurched forward, following an asphalted ribbon that weaved between dense foliage. My head swivelled to and fro; but try as I might, I couldn’t make anything out. I felt like I was at the start of a ride, waiting for mechanical surprises to jump out at me. And they sure did.
A minute later, Mother Nature’s curtains parted and my jaw dropped. There it was, basking in the early morning light: the famed Main House of Skywalker Ranch.

I took this picture about a year later, when two relatives came over for a quick visit.

We drove by a small body of water. “That’s Lake Ewok,” Reynolds said. “And right there is Skywalker Sound,” he added, jerking a thumb at a nearby red, winery-looking brick building—fronted by actual grape vines—which I knew housed some of the best sound studios in the world. It was Skywalker Ranch as far as the eye could see, and I was able to take quite the gander. Lush hills all around, with a smattering of low, respectful buildings nested in the middle of the whole thing—and never open to the public.
I must have held my breath the entire way in. The car veered in front of and around the Main House, before slipping under the Carriage House (home to Lucas Licensing, where many future adventures would take me). There a hidden parking lot kept most cars out of sight: only the occasional VIP was allowed to park out front, along the Main House’s curved driveway. We emerged in the backyard, a large and pleasant area where footpaths crisscross between the handful of buildings that drive operations at the Ranch. I followed Reynolds as he headed for the Brooke House, the prettiest of the backyard buildings, and thus called because it straddles an actual brook. My friend talked as he walked, while I tried not to trip over myself amidst all of my gawking around. “So five interviews in one day, eh?” Reynolds said more than asked. “You’ll do great.” He flashed me his best the-plan-is-proceeding-apace smile. “One of them’s already done.” I understood that to mean he was one of the five, and naturally he was already sold. That didn’t quell the feeling of panic building in my throat as we neared the Brook House, which sheltered the entire marketing department.
(So they’re all called “houses,” and they do look the part. Every office space feels like it was unfurled in a guest bedroom. Hell, the office destined to be mine was a cozy octagon with a working fireplace built into one of its eight sides.)
We climbed the wooden stairs as I shot a glance at the brook babbling right underneath us. I thought, “I can’t believe I’m here” and I must have said it aloud, because Reynolds replied, “You better believe it.”

The very cool Octagon (my future office) at one end of the Brook House

Inside, everything looked, sounded and even smelled family-like; I could have been visiting an uncle in his country home. (Except then I wouldn’t have been about to soil myself.) My host introduced me to a few enthusiastic colleagues; I shook hands and stuttered some niceties, got offered refreshments from the full kitchen in the back and then ushered into the aforementioned octagon to face my first interviewer, Steve Sansweet.
Back then Sansweet was Lucasfilm’s Head of Fan Relations, but I knew (of) him as the craziest private collector of all things Star Wars—with a mind-blowing collection that now includes the original cantina door—and the guy who had penned the definitive book on action figures from a galaxy far, far away. Sansweet eased himself into the interview like someone who was born to talk to strangers and made me more comfortable the second he opened his mouth, speaking slowly and deliberately in that rich baritone of his. He was frank and open, asking questions but also volunteering generous information: what it was like to work at the Ranch, the fun stuff and the not-so-fun stuff, and what I should expect if I decided to take the job. (IF??) He was the perfect interviewer, and someone I would often think about later, especially when sitting down to a job interview: I wish they were all like him. There’s something about Steve that makes you want to become his friend, to hug him and break bread and share stories with him—just to be around the guy, frankly. He’s absolutely great.
And I think he liked me too.

Next on the list were Marketing Project Manager Jeanne Cole and Head of PR Lynn Hale, both sharp and business-like, but also charming and caring—not an easy combo to pull off. (They welcomed me into a set of “offices” you could see yourself relaxing in on a Saturday afternoon.) Each of them asked a couple of tough questions, but knew to phrase them in a way that made you want to hit it out of the park and earn a permanent place on the team’s roster. Both interviews ended on a high note, with a “Hope to see you around” topped with a wink, and a firm handshake that said you’re almost there, don’t you fuck this up.
I imagined I was on a roll, and I might even have been right. But would that roll keep with Jim Ward, VP of Marketing? I could feel the drain on my batteries; by then a few hours had trickled by—much like water underneath the Brook House—and Ward was to be my fifth and final interview, like a boss fight at the end of a long level in a grueling videogame.

Reynolds grabbed me as I exited Cole’s office and announced it was lunchtime. He’d nabbed a table for three in the Main House dining room, one of the few facilities serving food around the Ranch. “Steve would like to join us, if that’s okay with you.” (Again with those improbable ifs.)
That meal earned me my first look inside the Main House, which, just like the rest of the structures dotting the Skywalker Ranch landscape, looks nothing like a collection of offices. Its appellation is not contrived: it really is a house, except one where people happen to work.
Getting to the dining room felt like a pilgrimage, with each step of mine that echoed through the hallways threatening blasphemy—I was afraid to breathe wrong. We passed a tall glass case that displayed one of C-3PO’s metal gauntlets (glinting with defiance in the dimmed lighting), a toy-sized speeder bike model, and a remarkable miniature of Yoda. All authentic props, of course. I fought hard to keep a tight grip on the geek inside and broadcast only professionalism; I’m not sure I succeeded. (I couldn’t even begin to imagine the entire week I would one day spend in the heavily restricted Lucasfilm archives, marvelling my way through relics and icons from each of the LFL productions. We’ll get there.)
In another corner stood a massive fireplace designed to look like it had been rebuilt time and time again to secure old stones shaken loose by a century of earthquakes—even though the house itself was only a few decades old. The Main House is a Victorian wonder, snatched through time and space and brought to rest somewhere deep in San Rafael’s bosom.

We soon reached the dining room. Apart from a small team of servers—discreet enough you could miss them if you blinked too hard—the medium-sized area could have passed for one of the common rooms in an old (albeit expertly maintained) boarding house. It held a pastoral atmosphere, as well as one elongated table, plus a handful of smaller ones. Ron Howard happened to be sitting at the big table, talking with energy to half a dozen collaborators. Eh, another day at the office.
I can’t for the life of me recall what we ate. I have no doubt it was delicious, but there was only so much my addled brain could process. I remember I was starting to feel like I was home, and I didn’t want that feeling to stop. At some point Reynolds looked at his watch, swallowed one last gulp of water, and grabbed my shoulder: “Alright Marty, time to meet your new boss.”

(Of course, he was talking about Marketing VP Jim Ward, not George Lucas. I would cross paths with George only twice in the two years to come, but one of them would prove memorable indeed.)

(Next chapter: It's in the Cards)

(Full series here)

# # #

Getting it Back

Right before the 2021 holidays, director Peter Jackon bestowed upon us all (as long as we were Disney+ subscribers) one hell of a Christmas gift: the 8-hour-long Beatles documentary Get Back, which chronicles the meandering creation of the last songs the Fab Four would ever record together.
The adventure began a long time ago, and would unfurl personal ramifications I did not suspect at all.

In early 1969, director Michael Lindsay-Hogg joined Paul, John, George and Ringo on a film soundstage (before the band eventually relocated to a proper recording studio) to shoot and record the musicians as they worked. The crew accumulated 50 hours of film and over 150 hours of audio throughout the creation/rehearsal/jamming/bickering sessions meant to give birth to classic songs like Get Back, Across the Universe and Let It Be, as well as spawn a live TV concert, a film documentary, a musical journey aboard a cruise ship, a mythical show amidst Roman ruins in North Africa—you name it. 
In the end, the footage was turned into an 80-minute "feature" that, back in 1970, helped fuel the tale of strife and general hatred surrounding the final Beatles album.

Enter Peter Jackson, 50 years down the line.
His team of wizards spent years cleaning up the footage like you wouldn’t believe: watching this on a 4K screen, you feel like you’re right there in the studio with the boys. But as miraculous as their achievement was on the visual side of things, what they accomplished with sound defies the imagination. Using artificial intelligence and machine learning, the team taught computers to train themselves in recognizing a human voice, an electric guitar, a drum kit, ambient noise, and so on.

You see, one of the problems with the original material was that everything was an aural jumble, with conversations constantly drowned by one musician or another noodling on his instrument. What the Peter Jackson treatment made possible was to “demix” the audio and build a multi-track recording decades after the fact. Want to lower the volume of the drums—or mute them altogether? No problem. You’d like to hear exactly what John is playing under that loud crash of crockery? Here you go.

Armed with those magically restored findings of visual and audio archeology, Jackson then put together the shortest cut he could that featured everything he deemed essential in understanding the creative process of the Beatles, circa 1969. The result is a can’t-miss, once-in-a-lifetime happening.
Yes, the blasted thing lasts over eight hours, but I’d have stared at my TV screen for twice as long with excitement and fascination. It’s that good.

I’ll spare you any kind of insight or analysis: the web is overflowing with those. What I wanted to put in writing was my personal reaction to that exceptional document.

Of course I was thrilled to see the Beatles up close and personal. To hear Harrison express his desire to have more of his songs appear on Beatles albums (and the secretly taped Lennon/McCartney conversation about how George was right); to see how much Starr was the backbone of the band, always the first to show up in the morning, never missing a step, 100% devoted to the band; to witness the creation of Get Back, from nothing to an almost finished hit song in a scant few minutes; to blink in disbelief at just how good Billy Preston was at the piano, completely unfazed by the presence of his iconic hosts; to see that charming and disarming Lennon smile, like the guy was still 10 years old and dreaming of becoming a music legend. It was an exhilarating journey all the way through. What I wasn’t prepared for—at all—was listening to the Let it Be album after having watched the Jackson documentary.

And so, about a week after that momentous event, I grabbed the black album off the shelf and popped it into the player. (Yes, I still listen to physical music, which sounds way better than those crappy MP3 files.)

The first thing that struck me was the humor. Of course, I’d heard Lennon’s antics before and after a variety of songs on Let it Be countless times: each intrusion is part of the actual track when you play it. But this time around, I remembered “being there” when the joke happened, watching Lennon look straight at the camera and mutter something silly under his breath. Before, I’d always thought those quips had been thrown in to add some color after the fact, but I knew now they’d always been there, spontaneous utterances let loose during the recording and which they’d just decided to keep on the master.

One of those jokes struck me more than the others. Right before McCartney launches into Get Back, Lennon says, “Sweet Loretta Fart she thought she was a cleaner, but she was a frying pan.” (Whereas the actual lyrics are thus: “Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman, but she was another man.”) It always sounded to me like a joke someone would make after hearing (indeed, playing) the same song over and over again. But to us, the audience—at least the first time you hear it—the track is brand new: you get a parody of the song before you’ve even had a chance to listen to it. And that feels very strange, almost like an editing mistake.
Well, that was back then, before the Jackson revelation. Now? It makes perfect sense. Lennon goes into his “Loretta Fart” joke precisely because he’s been playing the song over and over again in the studio, and we’ve seen that happen. Brilliant.

I started to get emotional when I heard the three tracks recorded on the roof of Apple Music on that cold January day (One After 909, Dig a Pony, and I’ve Got a Feeling). I remembered seeing the actual setup, with passersby in the street wondering what the hell was happening, neighbors stepping out on their own roofs for a peek at the action, and the ever-so-polite English cops banging at the door and asking if perhaps, by any chance, they could cut that racket out. I listened in amazement—feeling like I was hearing those songs for the first time in my life—thinking about the band playing in those silly fur coats, McCartney hurling his voice against the wind, Lennon’s fingers freezing on the strings, and always that smile of pure joy to just be doing what they were doing, against all odds (many of them of their own making).
How glorious is that Peter Jackson presentation of the rooftop performance, showing us multiple camera angles simultaneously? It’s an idea that nobody back then could have conceived of (except maybe Abel Gance with his avant-gardiste Napoléon—but that’s a story for another day), and yet a risk-free proposition in an age when most people have at least one giant screen hanging somewhere in their homes.

The Long and Winding Road started to tug at my heartstrings with a little more insistence, and by the time Get Back rolled around, tears were flowing down my cheeks, into a graying beard I was still decades away from growing when I heard the album for the first time. I was crying. Because I was discovering something new in that old collection of tunes. Because I could better understand where they were coming from. Because it was the ultimate destination, the final resting place of a long journey, many hours of which I had been privy to.
But mainly, and I could feel this in my gut, because I was free.
I realized then what I’d always held back before: that each of my innumerable listens of Let it Be had taken place with guarded ears and veiled heart. Remember, we were always told that the final Beatles album had been created amidst animosity, with band members at best tolerating each other’s presence, and recording sessions held together with chicken wire and a hefty supply of duct tape. So how could I in good conscience let myself bask in the joy and love I imagined oozing from every track on that album? It was show business, smoke and mirrors. I felt I owed the Beatles some respect for their creative suffering, and thus unconsciously kept my enjoyment of their last opus locked up in my brain and away from vital organs, as a cerebral experience that I quite enjoy on the occasional Sunday afternoon, thank you very much.

But it was all a lie. What Peter Jackson showed us was the happiness and camaraderie and brotherhood plain as day, on vibrant display as far as the internet can reach. When Lennon closes the album with “I'd like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition,” it’s not a crack aimed at livening up a broody atmosphere, but rather a genuine expression of joy at the conclusion of their rooftop escapade. Not only are we all allowed to see that, but we also understand it, because we were along for the most significant moments of the ride.
And so I cried. Not an unstoppable torrent of tears; rather, a silent trickle of deliverance and gratitude.

What I myself "got back" from all of this is the right to listen to Let it Be, the last hurrah of a band near and dear to my heart, without feeling an ounce of guilt for enjoying the songs so much. How can I ever thank Peter Jackson enough for this?
If I ever cross paths with the man, I’m liable to kiss him on the mouth.

# # #

Solo Ruleset: Snow Tails

Version 1.1

NOTE: You can download a PDF (complete with illustrated examples) HERE.

The following rules are intended to run sleds that no human player controls. They can be used for a solo game proper, but also to fill out the roster of racers when fewer than five players are involved. Just roll the dice for every “bot” riding a sled, and enjoy!

• All regular rules apply: the bot rules function as a layer on top of the existing ruleset. Some exceptions do exist, and will be highlighted accordingly.
• No rule is modified for human players. Only cardboard opponents are afforded some leeway...

The Dice

Each bot is activated with a roll of two six-sided dice (2d6), in two different colors. One of them is the Movement die, the other the Control die.

• The Movement die indicates the bot’s Speed—how many spaces it will move.
• The delta between the two dice shows how many drifts must be performed during that move. If both dice are equal, no drift occurs: the sled is balanced! (And it does benefit from its movement bonus.)
• In some situations (see below), the Control die also indicates in what direction drifts will take place. In those cases, the bot will drift towards the outside of the track (in relation to the next curve) when the Control die is higher than the Movement die, and towards the inside of the track when the Control die is lower than the Movement die.

Movement

Move each bot-driven sled as far as possible within the confines of the game’s regular rules. Prioritize distance (towards the finish line) over angle inside a corner. This means that sometimes a bot will drive itself into a dead end rather than go for a better position for next turn; that’s ok. If two different destinations are valid, prioritize the one most on the inside of the track.

• A bot’s minimum Speed is always its position in the race. If you roll a speed that’s lower than a bot’s position, physically rotate the Movement die so that it shows the correct number. (So a bot in fourth place can roll 4, 5 or 6—if the Movement die shows any other result, rotate it so that the 4 is showing.)
• If the sled starts on a corner piece, apply drifts towards the inside of the corner.
• If the sled’s move would take it onto a corner piece (even if another sled blocks the intended path—imagine the track is empty for this visualization), apply drifts towards the inside of that next corner.
• If both situations apply, prioritize the next corner.
• In any other contradictory situation, prioritize the current corner.
• (You might see that rare occurrence with two consecutive but opposed corners, where going inside the current corner takes you to the next track piece, but moving towards the inside of the next corner would leave you on the current track piece.)
• Note that the above points also apply to obstacle pieces such as the Snow Drift. In that case, replace “inside of the corner” with “safe side of the track.”
• Otherwise, apply drifts according to the Control die (as explained above).
• Once a drift direction is determined, it remains the same for the entire turn.
• Delayed Drift: If a drift would take a sled outside the track, move it forward instead. (That drift becomes a forward movement.) Bots are not stopped by the sides of tracks.
• Should the sled then reach an opening that allows it to drift, resume drifting as prescribed by the dice roll.
• A bot that reaches a dead end must stop.
• If a sled starts its turn in a dead end and gets a balanced dice roll (both dice are equal), it’s allowed to drift 1 space towards the inside of the track and then keep going if that move freed the sled. (And still use its movement bonus if applicable!)
• That initial “free drift” doesn’t count as a direction change, and so the sled could conceivably start drifting in the other direction during its move. This is the only case in which a bot could be viewed as zigzagging.

Movement Exceptions

• Bots are not restrained by speed limits. (Those guys are fearless!)
• Bots never incur damage.
• Bots ignore trees in their path.
• Bots are not stopped by the side of a track, but are stopped by other sleds.

Difficulty Adjustments

The rules outlined above should provide plenty of challenge and chaos. Sometimes bots will roll great, sometimes poorly, but overall the resulting race should be fun and exciting.
However, should you desire to up the ante, you can pull one or more of the following levers.

• Instead of selecting your start position at random, place your sled in a higher number (not necessarily 5!).
• Give a +1 or +2 move boost to any bot that starts its turn behind your sled.
• Provide bots that start their turn in a dead end with 2 free drifts instead of 1.
  (Warning: this makes bots REALLY powerful.)

Design Notes

There’s not much to say here, except that I’ve always wanted a way to play Snow Tails with five sleds on the race track, no matter how many friends I have around the table.
I like that the 2d6 mechanic mimics the pull of the two dogs on the sled, like the card play does for human players. There’s nothing that duplicates the effect of brakes, though; but since bots don’t care for speed limits, they don’t need to slow down.
Also, because the minimum Speed of a sled is equal to its position in the race, it tends to force stragglers to swerve towards the inside of the track (which is, of course, the ideal move we all strive for). You will sometimes get an incompetent bot in 5th place who will manage to roll a 6 on the Control die and drift against the curve: enjoy those occasional blunders, because bot-operated sleds never stay behind for very long...




# # #

Lucas Land: The Call

(Previous chapter: The Door)

I have previously recounted how I found myself whisked away to Tunisia on a quest for the original Star Wars shooting locations. It was on that trek that I met our intrepid guide, archaeologist Dr. David West Reynolds, who would take us through the looking glass and back, safe yet sated with blue milk and myriad intergalactic memories. 

And so it was on the road to Tatooine that Reynolds and I discovered that we had much more in common than an abnormal passion for Star Wars. Any unexpected twist in the conversation found us nodding our heads in agreement, exploding in shared excitement, or else grow solemn together in silent contemplation. For one thing, we realized we were both Back to the Future freaks, which gave us three more movies to obsess about together. (Did I mention Reynolds had just purchased a Delorean?) Despite a 10-year age gap that attempted to exert some distancing power over us, we grew surprisingly close over the course of our short two-week stay in that galaxy far, far away. So much so that, as our trip was winding down, I realized that what I imagined as the end of an incredible journey might in fact only be the beginning.

A scant few months prior, Reynolds had landed a job as editor-in-chief of starwars.com, and had his office right in the middle of the fabled Skywalker Ranch, nested in the rolling hills of northern California. Unbeknownst to me, he had since been on the lookout for a right-hand man (or woman, as the case may be): someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Star Wars universe, a sense of adventure, a willingness to jump into a ocean of unknown perils and tumbling dangers—and who also happened to have the chops to serve as lead writer in the coolest place on earth.
Me? I had been writing magazine articles for a couple of years, and published in just enough venues to prove that I was worth my salt when it came to typing stuff. (Some years later, a colleague in Virginia would start calling me “wordsmith”—still one of the very best compliments I’ve ever been paid about my writing.)

So one night, as we were actually huddled around a fire—would you believe it— Reynolds turned to me with a glint in his eye and uttered a few chilling words: “You know, you’re exactly the kind of guy I’d need at the Ranch.” I must have looked too stunned to answer, or else Reynolds didn’t feel like waiting. “I believe I have the perfect job for you,” he continued, explaining that there was a ton of writing to get done in order to feed an official Star Wars website that was still in its infancy, and that finding the right person to accomplish that Herculean task felt like subbing for Sisyphus himself. But his quest might be at an end: if he could arrange it, would I consider a position as web writer at Lucasfilm?

To be honest, it sounded like a pipe dream. I was 23, still in college working on my Masters (literature/philosophy—talk to me about 18^th century thinkers one day), and I hadn’t held a real day job yet. What was this guy selling me?
Sure, it sounded like a position I would have killed for, but perhaps in a parallel universe. Because in order to hire me (a Canadian), Lucasfilm would have to unholster a fistful of lawyers and prove to the American government that nobody else in the U.S. of A. could do the job like I could. Fat chance. And yet, what if that Rube Goldberg machine ended up producing that unlikely result?

Upon our return from our mythological odyssey, Reynolds promised to keep in touch—and that he did. I never once imagined he and I would forget each other, being as we felt like long-lost brothers, but I have to admit that the prospect of a job in California quickly faded from my horizon. I was back from the dream, and reality was calling. Still, once in a while, I would receive an email from my faraway friend saying he was still working on the job description, that our “project” was still on, and that he couldn’t wait for me to get over there.

Time flew like an angry river, with my hanging onto classes and papers like I would a disintegrating raft. About a year down the line, late in the summer of 1997, my inbox chimed the arrival of a message from a Lucasfilm HR lady asking for a copy of my resume. Reynolds had told me two days prior to expect such a communication, but I was still dumbfounded. Could this thing really be happening? I promptly fired an email back, with my resume (groomed to death 48 hours earlier) in tow. I remember looking at the screen after the communication went through, wondering what kind of a rollercoaster I had just boarded.

Less than a week later—on a Monday—I got a call from Lucasfilm. Not an email: a bona fide phone call. That same HR lady was asking if I were available to interview for the position of web writer, at Skywalker Ranch in Nicasio, California. They would have a plane ticket with my name on it that very Thursday, and a car waiting for me at San Francisco Airport. That one Reynolds had not prepared me for. (He’d always had a sense for the dramatic, and I would soon discover he wasn’t done yet.)
I somehow managed to stutter that yes, I’d be delighted to go out and meet with them, and that Thursday was perfect. (At that moment I couldn’t recall what my calendar looked like for the near future, but I was pretty sure nothing held a candle to the offer I had just received.) “Great!” the lady exclaimed, as if mortals refused an invitation to Skywalker Ranch on a regular basis. “I’ll email you everything.”

Two minutes later, I had indeed been emailed everything. I would land in San Francisco on Thursday night, sleep at a hotel halfway between the airport and the Ranch, go through five interviews (FIVE?!) on Friday before spending the weekend in the Bay Area, and finally flying back home on Sunday night. Reynolds called me while I was still going through my travel arrangements, and I could hear the devilish smile in his voice, bright like a church bell ringing next door. “So, are we meeting on Friday?” he asked. I replied with a conspiratorial grin: “You bet your ass.”

Try as I might, I can’t remember the handful of days leading to my departure. I know it turned into a peculiar blur of hazy preparations and trying to think of something else (to no avail). I do recall sitting on the plane, en route to SFO for the first time in my life, and being asked by the elderly San Franciscan couple seated on my right where I was going. “Well, I’m going to interview for a job at Lucasfilm,” I replied after a beat, not quite believing it myself.
(Ever seen the movie Sleepless in Seattle? There’s this scene where 8-year-old Jonah, having flown to New York on his own, climbs aboard a cab to try to reach the woman he desperately wants his father to date. The driver asks him where he’s going, to which Jonah replies excitedly, “I’m going to meet my new mother!” I’m convinced I sounded just like him when I told that sweet couple where I was headed, and that for an instant I looked not a day older than that kid.)

The plane touched down a few minutes before midnight. My hotel was just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge, so I had to drive through San Francisco at night (remember this is 1997: no smartphones to the rescue), cross the famous bridge with my mouth agape, make it to the hotel closer to dawn than dusk (yeah, I got lost), and then attempt to go to sleep. But Orpheus refused me for what felt like an eternity, and when my alarm clock started yelling in the morning, my face wasn’t sporting a single pillow crease.

Reynolds had suggested he come and pick me up, and he showed up right on time—behind the wheel of his Delorean, of course. As the gullwing door rose up and my friend started walking towards me, I couldn’t help but blurt out “Hey Doc!” Reynolds grabbed my trembling hand with one of his, put the other on my shoulder, and smiled like Doc Brown demonstrating his flux capacitor for the first time.
    “Hey Marty. Ready for the ride of your life?”

I knew he meant both the trip aboard the Delorean and my day at Skywalker Ranch.
But I couldn’t know how right he was.

 

(Next chapter: The Belly of the Beast)

(Full series here)

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