Pete's Expert Summary
My Staff has presented me with another of their flat, perplexing cardboard entertainment rectangles. This one, by a brand with the naively optimistic name "Days of Wonder," appears to be a simulation of territory control. It contains a large, foldable map of some human-centric landmass and, more importantly, a trove of small, colorful, plastic oblongs that they call "trains." The supposed purpose is for the humans to stare at cards and methodically place these plastic morsels along designated lines. For a being of my superior intellect and reflexes, the appeal is not in the slow, plodding "strategy," but in the potential of those little plastic trains. They are perfectly shaped for a swift batting, and I suspect they would skitter magnificently across the hardwood floor before disappearing under the credenza. A tedious distraction for them, but a potential source of high-quality "chase and lose" items for me.
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 evening began with the usual ritual: the Great Unfolding. The Staff spread the crinkly, colorful territory map across the dining table, a domain I typically reserve for my mid-afternoon meditations. They failed to appreciate that the blue expanse they called "Pacific Ocean" was, in fact, the precise location of my preferred sunbeam. An immediate demerit. They then unceremoniously dumped the contents of several small bags—a cascade of tiny, brightly colored plastic logs. My initial analysis concluded they were some form of exotic, inedible prey. I watched from my perch on a nearby chair, tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the cushion. My Male Human, a notoriously poor strategist in all things cat-related, began placing his little black trains in a clumsy line from what he called "New York" to "Pittsburgh." I recognized this route immediately. It was the well-worn path from the Kitchen Food Dispensary to the Living Room Scratching Post. An audacious claim on his part. My Female Human, slightly more clever, began hoarding a collection of blue cards, her eyes darting between the map and her hand. She was attempting to secure the "Los Angeles" to "Miami" route—a critical cross-country corridor that connects the Warmest Spot by the Window to the Water Bowl. I could not let this chaotic mismanagement of my household's infrastructure stand. This was not a game; it was a blatant and deeply flawed attempt at logistical planning. As the Male Human reached for another black train to block the Female's progress near "Oklahoma City" (the neutral territory of the hallway rug), I made my move. With the fluid grace only a creature of my standing possesses, I leaped onto the table. The humans gasped, a sound I interpret as awe. I ignored their trivial pieces and strode directly to the center of the board, to "Kansas," the nexus of all household activity. I then delicately, precisely, used my paw to sweep a single, unclaimed yellow train from the supply pile and deposit it squarely on the "Denver" to "Omaha" connection. It was a masterstroke, a move so subtle yet profound they could not possibly comprehend its meaning—I had just secured the high ground of the cat tree to the secondary napping spot on the office chair. They laughed, attributing my action to random feline whimsy. Fools. This "Ticket to Ride" was an unworthy game for them, but an excellent strategic map for me. I will permit its continued presence.
