Pete's Expert Summary
My Human has procured another one of their flat, foldable worlds. This one, apparently called "Ticket to Ride," involves a great deal of intense staring at a map of North America and hoarding little colorful sticks. From my observation post on the arm of the chair, it seems to be an exercise in organized anxiety. They call it a "strategy game," which I assume is Human for "a slow, complicated method of deciding who is most frustrated." The potential appeal for a sophisticated feline such as myself lies not in the "rules" but in the components: the box is of a respectable size for future napping, and the tiny plastic "train cars" are almost certainly designed for being batted into another dimension under the sofa. A potential source of quality playthings, provided I can liberate them from the board.
Key Features
- FAST-PACED STRATEGY: Race to build your train routes across iconic American cities in this award-winning board game.
- COMPETITIVE FUN: Challenge friends and family in a 2-5 player game, where every move counts.
- COLLECT TRAIN CARDS: Strategically gather train cards to claim routes and earn points.
- TICKET TO SUCCESS: Plan your routes wisely with ticket cards for bonus points.
- ENDLESS REPLAYABILITY: Enjoy hours of entertainment with this classic board game.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The operation began the moment the lid was lifted from the box. The scent of fresh cardboard and ink filled the air, a promising overture. My Human and their associates unfurled the great map, a tapestry of lines and cities that offended me by taking up prime sunbeam real estate on the rug. They spoke in code. "I need to connect Seattle to New York." "Who has the locomotive cards?" It was clear to me this was no mere game. This was a conspiracy. They were planning a "cross-country adventure," and my name had not been mentioned once. Unacceptable. I descended from my perch, my movements fluid and silent, a gray shadow with a purposeful stride. My initial target was a small pile of blue train cars, left unguarded near the "Chicago" territory. They were clearly fuel cells for this fantastical transport device. With a casual flick of my tail—an "accident," of course—I sent three of them skittering under the bookshelf. Sabotage. Phase one was complete. The Human merely sighed and retrieved them, foolishly underestimating my resolve. My masterstroke, however, was far more subtle. I observed them poring over their "Destination Tickets," small cards that I deduced were the actual travel itineraries. This was the heart of their plan. As my Human contemplated a route from Miami to Los Angeles, I made my move. I gracefully leaped onto the center of the board, curled my body into a perfect, regal circle directly over the entire Midwest, and began to purr. My soft, substantial form now blocked all transcontinental travel. I was a furry, purring mountain range. Checkmate. They could have their little game, but it was clear that all roads, all tickets, and all strategic ambitions would have to go through me. This toy, this "Days of Wonder," was a worthy adversary. It gave me a new and vital purpose: Chief of Domestic Security.
