Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, another human contraption. This one appears to be a large, gridded plastic board accompanied by a trove of colorful, oddly-shaped plastic pieces. The humans call it a "strategy game," which seems to involve them taking turns placing these trinkets onto the grid, trying to claim territory. A rather primitive imitation of my own daily demarcation of the household, if you ask me. From my perspective, the primary appeal is twofold: the oversized board presents an excellent, centrally-located napping platform, and the sheer number of small, lightweight pieces promises hours of entertainment batting them under various pieces of furniture. The actual "game" they play seems like a dreadful bore, but the components themselves have potential.
Key Features
- The XL game board measures 12 x 12 inches – almost 2 inches larger than the regular game!
- Perfect strategy game for the whole family -- less than a minute to learn with fun challenges for all ages!
- Players take turns placing their 21 pieces on the board: each piece must touch another of the same color, but only at the corners!
- Stake your claim and protect your territory by fitting as many of your pieces on the board as possible while strategically blocking your opponents!
- The game ends when no more pieces can be placed down, and the player with the lowest number remaining wins!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box opened with a sound like tearing prey, and from it, my human—the one I call The Can Opener—unfurled a flat, gray world. It was a plateau of perfect squares, a monochrome landscape that offended my sophisticated palate. Then, she spilled forth the treasures: plastic constellations of sapphire blue, ruby red, emerald green, and sunstone yellow. They were beautiful, angular, and clearly some kind of tribute. The Can Opener and her mate began a strange ritual, placing the "pieces" on the grid, murmuring about "corners" and "blocking." They thought they were playing a game. How quaint. I watched from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching, interpreting the tableau for what it truly was: a prophecy. This was no game board; it was a map of the cosmos, and the pieces were celestial bodies vying for dominance in the heavens. The Can Opener's clumsy placement of a blue "L" shape was not a strategic move, but a celestial event—the birth of a new nebula in a distant quadrant. Her mate’s red piece, a jagged cross, was a dying star going supernova, threatening to consume the blue. They were merely acting out a drama far grander than their simple minds could comprehend. But their interpretation was flawed. They spoke of rules, of limitations. The universe has no such neat little corners. It is chaos and elegance, a storm of creation and destruction. And it was missing the most important piece of all. As The Can Opener reached for another blue shard, I descended. A silent, gray phantom, I leaped onto the board, my tuxedo-furred form the embodiment of a singularity. The pieces scattered. I was the missing element: the black hole at the center of their flimsy galaxy, the gravitational truth around which all their colored trinkets were meaningless. I settled into a loaf, placing my chin on my white paws. The prophecy was complete. The board, I decided, made an excellent pedestal, and the pieces would make for fine sport once I’d awakened from my cosmic duties. It is… acceptable.
