Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home another cardboard box, this one a lurid shade of yellow that frankly clashes with my elegant gray fur. Inside is not a delightful new crinkle ball or feather wand, but a plastic contraption with a large dial. Apparently, this is a "game" where the bipedal staff members shout nonsense at each other ("Wizard or... not a wizard?") and try to guess a location on a spectrum. It seems like an incredibly inefficient method of communication, a problem I solved long ago with a simple, well-placed stare. While the cacophony they create is a complete waste of my napping time, the box itself has potential as a temporary fortress, and the small, movable parts on the central device might—*might*—be worthy of a cursory bat, should I feel generous.
Key Features
- Hot or cold. Soft or hard. Wizard or…not a wizard? Work together to decide where your clue falls on the spectrum in this telepathic party game.
- POLYGON: “One of the best party games we’ve ever played.”
- NYT WIRECUTTER: Featured in “The best board games”
- Works in groups from 2-12+ people. Great for large parties, offsites, family gatherings, and anywhere you need instant fun.
- 5 seconds to set up, 1 minute to learn, 30 minutes to play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for long, uninterrupted sunbeam sessions. My human, whom I permit to cohabitate in my apartment, unboxed the offering with an unseemly amount of glee. It was a stark, black plastic device with a single, massive eye divided into fields of red and blue. She placed it on the coffee table—my table—and soon, more humans arrived, gathering around it like moths to a particularly foolish flame. They began their ritual, a bizarre liturgy of opposites. "Tastes good... tastes bad," one would intone. Then the clue: "A single piece of dry kibble left in the bowl overnight." The ensuing debate was pathetic. I, an expert on the subject, knew the answer immediately: an affront to all that is good and just, firmly in the "tastes bad" territory. For the next hour, I observed from my perch on the back of the sofa, a silent, furry god judging their clumsy attempts at communion. They spun the great wheel, their hands greasy from the snack bowls I had not been offered a share of. They’d argue, then one would flick a small lever on the side of the idol, causing a shutter to snap down with a sharp *clack*. This sound, I noted, was the only interesting part of the entire affair. It cut through their dull chatter with a pleasing, mechanical finality. A sound of judgment. Eventually, the herd thinned, leaving the plastic oracle alone on the table. The silence was a welcome relief. I hopped down, my paws making no sound on the hardwood floor, and approached the intruder. It smelled of plastic and human hands. I gave it a suspicious sniff, then a tentative nudge with my head. It wobbled, but did not fall. My gaze fell upon the lever, the source of the satisfying *clack*. It was small, a perfect size for a precision instrument, such as my paw. With the careful deliberation of a master hunter, I extended a single claw and hooked it behind the lever. I pulled. *Click-clack!* The shutter snapped down. A jolt of triumph shot through me. I did it again. *Click-clack!* And again. *CLICK-CLACK!* This was not a tool for telepathy; it was a percussive instrument of immense quality. Their foolish game was a transparent excuse to possess this magnificent clicking mechanism. While they may believe they are connecting on some higher "wavelength," I have discovered its true purpose. It is a device for making a sharp, authoritative noise, over and over, until a human comes to investigate. And perhaps brings a treat. It is, I have decided, an acceptable addition to my domain.