Pete's Expert Summary
My human presented me with this box from a company called Z-Man Games, a known purveyor of human time-sinks that involve staring intently at printed cardboard. This one, "House of Danger," appears to be a narrative game where they pretend to be in peril, a concept I find quaint given that real peril involves the vacuum cleaner or a critically low food bowl. It promises over an hour of playtime for one or more participants, which is an absurd amount of time to be doing anything other than napping in a sunbeam. The only features of remote interest are the "relevant accessories"—which I interpret as small, bat-able tokens—and the box itself, which, judging by its dimensions, might offer a respectable spot for a mid-afternoon snooze. The game's story is irrelevant; the packaging, however, has potential.
Key Features
- Number of players: 8
- Brand New in box.
- The product ships with all relevant accessories
- Package Dimensions: 6.4 L x 21.8 H x 14.0 W (centimeters)
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it always does, with the shearing of the sacred plastic skin. The sound, a delightful crinkle, promised new possibilities. I watched from my post atop the suede armchair, my tail giving a single, interested flick. My human placed the box on the floor, a colorful rectangle bearing the words "House of Danger." A bold claim. The only true danger in this house is stepping on my tail while I am sleeping, an offense punishable by a week of pointed glares. With the lid removed, my hopes were dashed against the rocks of mediocrity. Inside was not a feathered bird, nor a crinkly ball, nor even a morsel of freeze-dried salmon. It was a collection of flat, lifeless cards and a board that depicted a crude map of some building far less interesting than this one. My human began laying out the pieces with the misplaced reverence of a priest arranging an altar. I sighed, the sound barely audible over the rustling paper, and began my post-disappointment grooming. Then, a most curious thing happened. My human began to talk to the empty room. "I should investigate the strange noises coming from the laboratory," they murmured, their eyes fixed on a card. They moved a small, featureless pawn onto the board. This was a new level of madness. They were telling themselves a story, a flimsy narrative of make-believe spooks and specters. How utterly charmingly pathetic. They were playing inside a House of Danger, while I, Pete, was the silent, tuxedoed master of the real thing. I decided to add a chapter of my own to their little tale. With the fluid grace only a creature of my refined stature can possess, I leaped from the chair and landed silently on the rug beside the board. They were so absorbed in their fictional peril, they didn't even notice the real, furry enigma in their midst. I crept closer. Their pawn, their "investigator," was approaching a room marked "Eerie Hallway." I extended a single, perfectly manicured white paw. With a gentle tap, I sent the pawn skittering under the sofa, into the dusty abyss from which nothing returns. My human looked down, bewildered. "Where did it go?" they asked the air. I retreated to the now-empty box, curling into its rigid confines. The game itself? A bore. But as a catalyst for my own story, a stage upon which I could demonstrate the unpredictable whims of a true household god? It had its merits. Let them search for their lost pawn. I, the true psychic detective of this establishment, had solved the case: it was an act of a handsome, gray phantom. The box was mine now, a worthy throne. The game was, conditionally, approved.
