There’s a certain kind of magic that fills the air when you step into a place like Norwescon. It’s not just the energy of thousands of people buzzing with ideas, costumes trailing behind them like bright comets, and panels with names that make your heart skip a beat. It’s the feeling that for a few precious days, you are surrounded by people who understand exactly why you love the things you love.

I spent most of this Norwescon weekend exactly where my heart wanted to be—at the gaming tables, surrounded by dear friends, new acquaintances, and a towering stack of board games just waiting to be cracked open. For four glorious days, I lived in a rhythm of dice rolls, card draws, triumphant cheers, and the occasional, dramatic groan of defeat.

We dove into Dominant Species, where I, the humble insect, managed to conquer an Ice Age world one hex at a time. It was a sprawling dance of survival and strategy, and I still grin thinking about the look on the Mammals player’s face when my swarms took over the tundra.

One morning, we pulled out Codenames, and with coffee in hand, we whispered clues and made wild guesses until one accidental leap of logic connected the oddest words in ways we could never have planned. There’s a special thrill when you and a teammate’s minds click at exactly the right moment.

We played The Bears and the Bees, creating a tapestry of hexagonal tiles and blooming flowers, and I marveled at how something so simple could feel so peaceful and competitive at once. Somewhere in there, a rogue bear tile caused an entire hive to fall apart, but we forgave it. Mostly.

We played Rock Hard 1977, a hilariously intense little card game where you manage the ups and downs of running a rock band in the late ‘70s. Every turn felt like a battle between ego, fame, and chaotic band drama. You’re trying to get gigs, record albums, and keep your band members from storming off in a glittery, furious huff. At one point, I had three scandals in a row and still managed to headline a festival. Truly the spirit of rock and roll at its finest. It’s chaotic, ridiculous, and an absolute riot when everyone leans into the story.

Later, we sat down for a gentler game with Sagrada, where we drafted colorful dice to build our own stained glass windows. It’s the kind of game that feels almost meditative at times, with every placement a delicate decision balancing color, number, and space. Midway through, someone realized they had accidentally boxed themselves into an unsolvable corner, and the gasp that went around the table was worthy of a cathedral.

For the first time ever, I had a print ad in the Norwescon program book. There it was, tucked in among the schedules and panels and stunning art. My work. My voice. A small, tangible sign that what I’m building—the stories I’m telling, the worlds I’m dreaming—is reaching out into the real world, finding other hearts to connect with.

Now that I’m home again, the dice are back in their bags, the coffee cups are washed, and the program book sits proudly on my desk. But the magic of Norwescon lingers. It hums through my memories, warm and bright, reminding me that there are always new games to play, new friends to meet, and new dreams to chase.

Until next year, Norwescon. Thank you for the laughter, the stories, and the reminder that sometimes, the best adventures begin with a simple roll of the dice.