Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe this shiny metal rectangle holds some sort of entertainment. From my analysis, it's a collection of stiff, papery squares featuring crude illustrations of my kind, often in rather undignified, explosive situations. The entire premise—that a kitten could "explode"—is, frankly, insulting. We are purveyors of silent judgment and sudden, chaotic sprints, not cheap pyrotechnics. The humans, however, seem poised to spend a significant amount of time staring at these cards instead of my magnificent gray-and-white tuxedo coat. While the game itself appears to be a complete waste of their attention, the tin it comes in has potential. It possesses a satisfying gleam and looks just about the right size for a strategic nap, provided I can convince them to empty out the useless, colorful clutter within.
Key Features
- Blow up boring with this game: Exploding Kittens is made for 2-5 players aged 7 and up. It’s a kid-friendly card game with humor cheeky enough to keep teens and adults laughing while they play.
- 50 Million + Copies Sold: In this viral card game, players draw cards until someone gets an Exploding Kitten which causes total annihilation…unless you have a card save you. Use cards to avoid exploding or to sabotage your opponents. The last one standing wins!
- Easy To Learn And Quick To Play: Each of the 56 cards has hilarious artwork by The Oatmeal and super simple instructions printed on them. You’ll be a pro in less than 10 minutes
- Voted Best Travel Game By National Geographic: It’s the perfect travel card game - stow it in a carryon, take it on a road trip, play it at a restaurant, bring it camping, or whip it out at any gathering you sense could use a few more goats, kittens, laser beams, and explosions!
- The Most Backed Kickstarter Campaign of All Time: Over 200,000 supporters helped launch this game. Exploding Kittens is a global bestseller and the inspiration for a hit Netflix show.
- Important Note: The English version of this game is only compatible with other English-language versions of Exploding Kittens and Expansion Packs.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with a betrayal. The Can Opener, my primary human, gathered several others around the low table in the living room. They produced the shiny tin, and my hopes for a new, sunbeam-warmed bed were dashed when they revealed its contents. Cards. Not a single treat, not one feather. They began a strange ritual, dealing out the flimsy portraits of my brethren. I observed from my throne atop the bookcase, my tail twitching in mild irritation. They spoke a nonsensical language of "tummy rubs," "catnip sandwiches," and "nope," all while laying down cards with a gravity usually reserved for the opening of a fresh can of salmon. Their focus was absolute, an intensity I typically only command myself. A lanky human groaned as The Can Opener played a card depicting two cats slapping each other. Pathetic. Then came the whispers, a tension coiling in the room. They spoke of the "Exploding Kitten." I narrowed my eyes. An absurdity. I am the pinnacle of feline evolution; we do not simply "explode." We might inspire an explosion of adoration or perhaps an explosive sneeze from an allergic guest, but the act itself is beneath us. It became clear this was the object of their fear, this one particular card that could end their little game. As the pile of cards dwindled, the air grew thick with a palpable dread that was, I admit, slightly amusing. The lanky one reached out a trembling hand, his eyes wide. He was about to draw. It was his last chance. The Can Opener was watching, a smug look on her face. This would not do. Order must be maintained, and the natural order is that *I* am the center of all drama. With a silent leap, I landed weightlessly in the center of the table. I ignored their gasps and stared directly at the deck. With the deliberate grace of a seasoned predator, I extended a single, perfect white paw and placed it firmly on top of the cards. I then slowly, deliberately, began to purr, a low rumble that vibrated through the table. The game stopped. Every eye was on me. The lanky human retracted his hand, defeated not by a card, but by my sheer, undeniable presence. The Can Opener laughed and scooped me into her arms, burying her face in my soft fur and calling me her "little game-wrecker." I had absorbed their foolish tension and converted it into adoration for myself. The game is a ridiculous human construct, a flimsy imitation of the complex power dynamics I navigate daily. But as a tool to remind them of their true master? In that, it has proven surprisingly effective. The tin, I've decided, will make an excellent trophy stand.
