Everyone knows about the secret passages at the corners of the Clue board, but only tenth-level Clue-Masters know about the catacomb beneath the ballroom. There might you find, stacked like firewood, the stabbed, shot, bludgeoned, or strangled bodies of generations of Boddys, dating back to before Humans walked upright.
Reduced to refugees in their own country, the Natives of Catan dream of the day upon which the Earth will open up and swallow the Settlers, together with their roads and cities. They know in their hearts that upon that day, the old ways will be restored and everything will be as it was before.
There’s a phantom hotel in Monopoly. It appears, on average, in one out of every 200,000 games, on a random property, and only for a turn or two. The price of landing on a property with the phantom hotel cannot be paid in mere money. Once you have paid this price, whatever it may be, you may yet go on to win the game, but you will no longer be able to derive satisfaction from material gain.
One day, soldiers on the opposing sides in Risk will realize that they have far more in common with each other than they do with any of their generals. When that moment of class consciousness comes, they will turn on their bourgeois masters, and join forces to paint the world red.
There’s a little pink lady in the Game of Life who lies awake at night, haunted by the knowledge that no matter how many Bohemian flourishes she affects when decorating her suburban home, she will never be anything more than a sell-out. Her little blue husband snoring beside her, she quietly regrets not running off with her friend Deirdre when she was in college. A single perfect tear slides down her plastic face.
The prototype of Snakes and Ladders included an Ouroboros snake. During testing, one of the players managed to land on the Ouroboros (though they still haven’t figured out quite how). He has been circling about ever since.
Errant torpedoes in Battleship may explode amid the Deep. The mariners aboard your ships all pray that the blasts do not awaken that which slumbers down there.
You can pawn a king when playing Chess. You don’t even have to walk it all of the way to the end of the board. All that you need to do is to wait until the burden of kingship becomes too much to bear. Then the king can cast off his heavy crown, shrug off his magnificent golden brocade, and become as small and as faceless as the common rabble. His ministers, loyal to the end, will see him off as he slips out of his palace late at night, and then declare the king to be dead. He isn’t though; he’s just become one of us. No king in the history of Chess has ever chosen to do this.