Grin Evil? Grin Good!
Stop whatever you’re doing. Just stop. I need to tell you about one of the weirdest, wildest, and most interesting board games I’ve played all year. Scratch that. Ever. That’s right. Ever.
This is Grinivil. It was designed, illustrated, and published by Rudy Priecinsky. It’s tempting to lob a jab in there — “I can tell!” hardy har — especially once you get a look at the scattershot rulebook, the potato-headed character portraits, the mishmashed card layouts, the box itself… okay, as soon as you get a look at pretty much anything it has to offer.
But don’t make the easy joke. Set that aside. Because Grinivil is a gift from a parallel universe where Eurogames are never wrung dry through market testing and impersonal development, but instead allowed to blossom into bespoke artifacts that are equally uncanny and compelling and inventive. This is Grinivil. It’s breathtaking.
When Grinivil begins, Grinivil — the town the board game is named after — has been thrown open to new development. As towns go, Grinivil is small. Actually, I’m not even sure it qualifies as small. The municipality has started construction on a few things, drawn at random, but they’re as yet unfinished. There are plots for houses and additional commercial spaces, but nobody has filled them. Even the trees have yet to be planted. If Grinivil were deposited in the Old West, they wouldn’t have the livestock to qualify as a one-horse town.
But where there’s a vacuum, there’s opportunity. As a developer, you’re here to buy and sell land, construct amenities, and finagle clients into houses.
It’s a normal enough pitch, in other words. Maybe even an unexciting pitch. There are plenty of board games about real estate, and Grinivil doesn’t sound all that far off from titles like Rebuilding Chicago, The Estates, or Magnate: The First City. Tough competition. Solid games. Good bones.
But it takes Grinivil all of ten seconds to set itself apart as those titles’ spiritual opposite. For one thing, there’s the way the game looks. And I promise I’m not about to ding it. Quite the opposite. Grinivil’s earliest state, when it’s nothing more than a traffic loop and a few partially-constructed buildings atop a single pizza-slice of land, is full of potential. You can see what it might become after some walls have been put up and a few trees have been planted.
What’s more, those walls and trees mean something. They signify investment. When you add a floor to a building, you mark it with a piece of your color. Now that isn’t just the second story of a bowling alley or the foundation of a house. It’s your share in the bowling alley. It’s your ability to profit off the sale of the home. Those trees are bumps in property value. That road, now paved, is a sign that a new portion of the town is open for business.
And it isn’t only your investments you’re interested in. It’s everybody else’s, too.
Let’s approach it from another angle. Turns.
Turns in Grinivil take place on the Time Action Ring, also called the TAR. The TAR is a rondel. Starting at the top-left, you move your pawn clockwise around the TAR, stopping at any action you want to perform. You know. It’s a rondel. It behaves like most rondels.
There are a few wrinkles to this process. First and foremost, most actions, once completed, will move you forward an extra space or two. (Or three or four.) Sometimes this bypasses another action you were hoping to take. Fortunately, you can pay cold hard cash to move fewer spaces. If pouring that foundation will move you forward three spaces, therefore passing the space you were hoping to use next turn, you can pay some money to move a little less.
That’s not all. Unlike some rondels, which limit movement, here you’re allowed to visit any space. You can even circle the entire TAR in a single move if you so desire. The limitation is that passing Go will not award $200. In fact, the opposite is the case. Whenever you pass the space at the top left, you pay both taxes and your workers. Taxes, now, that’s a flat rate. But workers consume a few bucks apiece. If you don’t have any workers on the table, whether constructing a building or squatting on an ability space on the TAR, that’s not the biggest deal. But if you have three workers out, it suddenly behooves you to stretch your time on the TAR as much as possible.
And then there’s the real highlight: the actions themselves. Put simply, Grinivil offers some of the coolest actions I’ve seen put to a rondel. Some are fairly routine, like buying or selling resources, but others transform the state of the board in ways that are hard to describe without seeing them in action.
You might, for example, add a wedge to the map. This costs some money and awards a few points. Far more importantly, it gives you ownership over that wedge. Basically, you’re speculating on land. Now whenever anybody wants to build on that land, they’ll be paying a premium for the opportunity.
Or you might turn victory points into cash. Points are the game’s objective, of course, but they don’t really matter until the end. So why not turn them in for walking-around money? This isn’t the first game to feature such an option, but it’s the only one where I’ve seen players accept that devil’s bargain. Sometimes multiple times. If you’re still short, you could also collect unemployment for all the workers who aren’t currently out there collecting a wage, or host an auction and collect the proceeds, or flip all that timber and concrete for more than you spent on it.
Or you could alter the rules altogether. This is mostly the domain of abilities, spots on the TAR that must be occupied by one of your workers. This uses up the worker — and you’ll have to pay them, of course — but gives you that space’s perk until you loop back around to it. To a one, these are ridiculous. There’s the Manager, who removes the need to spend extra time on the TAR. As in, that entire portion of the game is just deleted. Or there’s the Architect. She lets you use any resources when building rather than using specific materials, letting you pass off concrete monstrosities as homes or build a pet store out of nothing but cheap steel. So much for the game’s inventory management! The Banker gives you three coins per turn. Just gives them to you. The Ecologist — my group calls him Treesus — does something similar, adding periodic trees to your inventory.
Surprisingly, the most foundational action, construction, is anything but perfunctory. As you might expect, construction is where you spend materials to add a floor to the map. But it’s also so much more than that, inserting players into the overgrown thicket of incentives that is Grinivil’s principal draw. More on that in a moment.
It might sound like the efficacy of these actions is game-breaking, but in practice it really means that every decision carries considerable heft. On any given turn, you’re presented with a wide-open decision space between three or four tremendous opportunities. Sometimes a shortfall can be covered by having the right resources on-hand, and it isn’t unheard of for an action to become better thanks to a cash infusion. But the real cost is always paid in the opportunities you passed by on your way to something else.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the game’s residents. Grinivil, at its core, is about attracting newcomers to town. Each resident has a number of needs, some underlined in red, others more negotiable. When the game begins, you have two in-hand. There’s also a display of additional cards that can be acquired or swapped out.
Here’s an example. When you first sit down to play, you could be holding Miriam and Nela. Both are worth some points, but Miriam will pay a bunch of cash if her house is on a lot with many trees, whereas Nela is willing to pay a flat rate. Okay, simple enough. So Nela is easier to place on undeveloped land, right?
Sort of! Both also have some hard-coded requirements. Miriam won’t move in unless there’s a grocery store within three spaces of her new home and a bus stop somewhere in town. Nela, meanwhile, isn’t too picky about distance, but wants a pet store and a garden center. When placed, they also provide bonuses. If there’s a playground within two spaces, Miriam will award a few extra points. She’ll also pay a premium for a nearby garden center, giving her some overlap with Nela. For her part, Nela wants a library and a music venue. Deep breath: They also provide end-game bonuses. Miriam wants a hospital in town. Nela insists on a police station.
Here’s the thing. Call it a double-edged sword. Like everything in Grinivil, residents pose a certain hurdle. Their cards are, charitably, a mess of information. Less charitably, they’re just a mess.
But that mess, apart from being somewhat hard to untangle visually, is important, because it’s how everything gets evaluated. When you house a resident, each of those boxes tells you something different. The top box is how many points and coins they give you right away. But everything underneath that, all three boxes of potential rewards, are awarded to whomever owns the thing in question. If I built the garden center for Nela, and then you later welcome Miriam to town, I get the cash for her proximity to the garden center even though you played the card. If I own two of the hospital’s three floors, then two-thirds of Miriam’s fifteen end-game points are mine, even if I never so much as glanced at her until the final tally.
This makes Grinivil a stern plaything indeed, but it’s always fair in its unfairness. There’s hidden information, but not so much that it can’t be overcome with watchfulness and shrewd investments. There are few guardrails, but open-ended actions and a few dashes of chance make it possible to wrestle out of tight spots.
Which isn’t to say that these rough edges can’t prove frustrating, especially during the first play or two. Once, a player’s early investment in a water treatment plant — and we’re talking about their third or fourth action, maybe fifteen minutes into a two-hour session — translated into a game-winning swing when a half-dozen residents all insisted that their town have potable water.
The beauty of Grinivil, though, is that this was entirely our fault. The table’s fault, I mean. Mine. My co-players’. Because as soon as that rival invested so much in clean water, we should have shifted our priorities. No more residents who care weirdly a lot about their drinking water being certified amoeba-free! Only cop-loving residents, or residents who insist on accessible hospitals, or residents who hang out at churches and retirement communities.
Or, perhaps, we could have ensured that our game-ending tally was dwarfed by residents whose earlier payouts were sufficient to overcome any final swings. There are many ways to earn points in Grinivil, and just about as many ways to invest one’s attention and money.
In all cases, though, this is a game that benefits from both experience and table-talk. It’s a game where it’s not only not impolite, but necessary to say, “Hey, let’s stop attracting so many residents who love the aroma of water being treated.” In that sense, Grinivil is a game about cutting through the clutter to see what’s really important. (And boy howdy is there clutter, hardy har!) It’s about reading the state of the table, about observing which properties are likely to pay off big and which might only be worth a little bit here and there. It’s about watching your opponents and knowing when to feed the animals and when to hold back. Sometimes, it’s even about snaking somebody’s investment by paying a pittance to slap a roof atop their house and hustle one of your residents inside before they can protest.
I like a polished game. But we’ve reached the point where too many games are polished. Some are so polished, I’d say, so devoid of rough edges, that there’s nothing left to snag one’s attention.
Grinivil is the other thing. Snaggy and shaggy. Some of its actions don’t have immediate utility; others are so potent that it’s impossible to choose between them. Sometimes a corner feels too painted-in. Its art is, um, undeniably not crafted by a plagiarism engine. Personally, I like how it looks. Not only the town, which is gorgeous, but the wackadoo resident cards. Just look at those nerds. I love them like my own ex-girlfriends.
For all of that — or more likely because of it — Grinivil is captivating. As in, it captures and holds one’s attention the way no number of over-smoothed experiences possibly could. It grabs your elbow, shows you the dance floor, and asks you to move. Then it probably shouts at you a little bit, before apologizing and rumpling your shirt and tucking a buck into your back pocket. No matter. This artifact, this singular vision, this gift from another dimension, is so spellbinding that it reminds me why I started playing board games in the first place.
A complimentary copy of Grinivil was provided by the designer and publisher.
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