Every title

Everything worth having is further down than you want to go.

Nine of you came down. The station only has power for eight.

Thirteen arcana are documented. Players keep finding a fourteenth.

Somebody at this table is about to be crowned for the wrong reason.

Everything this game does happens on the other side of a door.

Everything you plant lights up eventually. Some of it takes years.

One seat. Everyone wants it. The tram is not waiting.

Every label is a claim. Tonight, most of them are yours.

The sea takes what stands alone.

A paper lantern needs two hands, and nobody will tell you whose.

Seven nights, one lamp, and everybody can read the wind.

Every stride you will ever take is lying face up between you.

Every coin you spend is a point you no longer have.

Three steps to the water, and something standing in it.

Eight frosts in the deck, and every one of them is yours if you push.

The lead is not dealt. It is bought, at the top of the ladder.

The picking happens the moment a tree is full — not a moment before.

Every pin is public. Only the code is not.

Bid what you will take. Take exactly what you bid.

The air belongs to everybody. The gold belongs to whoever turns back.

The only thing hidden is where anything is.

Two skiffs, one lake going dark, and every fare is the distance you row for it.

The stack belongs to its top stone, whatever it is standing on.

Every neighbouring pair swings to the heavier bell, and the difference is the score.

Every pass costs a coin, every take costs a demand, and runs of demands count once.

Every edge that agrees with its neighbour pays the setter who placed it.

I split, you choose — and a matched pair split in two is worth nothing extra to either baker.

Two threads a round: draft one, and the other is woven by your rival.

One light hiding in a night meadow, and every answer it gives goes stale.

The rank one, played off-suit, rings the vesper — and steals the trick whole.

Seven wards, twelve cubes each, majorities score — and a ward that comes out level answers to whoever walked in first.

The par is the pin — a stroke for every point you finish short of it, and a stroke for every point past.

Match the size, raise the value, or pass — and the first empty hand wins the ladder.

Sums take tools, the hammer takes height, the file takes lows — and tied tools hang for nobody.

Every buy lifts the chalk for every lot on it — and two coins buys anybody a crash.

The fourth wall claims the paddock — and pays you one more lay, which you must spend.

Both houses act at once, in the dark — and the letters are identical, down to the last 8.

One line of crates, both ends open to both ships — and a cargo pays its worth times the margin.

Your pan is your ledger — every weight you cannot put on the rival’s, you carry.

No beacon may stand beside a rival’s — and the keeper who cannot light, loses.

Cut any number from one bank — and whoever cuts the LAST sod of the bog loses.

Three gears wound in secret, a march played in the open — and the rival does not stop you, it MOVES you.

Twelve veneers, five cells each, sixty cells for sixty-four — and every piece lies as drawn, never turned.

Five faces pay and one burns the whole pot — first tally to forty takes the fire.

Lead a card, and the rival answers at sight — the difference moves the knot, and no single pull can reach the mark.

Five runners, ranks 1 to 5, set in secret — and every rank hidden until steel meets steel.

Every gate holds what its neighbourhood allows — and the spill claims whole gates.

Every mismatch marks its letters for the whole table — what one compositor has seen, both have seen.

Three dice on the table, one chalk between you — the die you leave, the rival writes.

A meadow of sixteen folds — the fourth hedge closes one, and closing never passes the hand.

Four casks, four chalk rings, and a push needs the square behind you.

Two lamplighters on ice that will not hold still — slide a whole line, or step, and the wind takes the lanterns east.

One lamp, one bench of mirrors, and a beam that serves whoever bent it last.

The one everyone already knows.

Simple to state. Not simple.

Luck, handled well.

Older than most of the board.

Get to the other side.

Nothing is taken. Everything changes sides.

Join your two sides. That is the entire rulebook.

Forty-eight seeds, and none of them are yours.

Everybody is lying. Somebody is lying badly.

Four in a line. Any line.

The only game where you spend the evening trying not to win.

The house has been waiting for someone to ask the right question.

Two powers, one unfinished chart, and a law that binds whoever wrote it.