It begins innocently enough. A simple roll of the dice, a draw of a card, an idle evening with friends... You're just a player, after all. But beneath that surface, just under the veneer of casual enjoyment, something stirs, something gnaws at the edge of your reality. You crave more.

Soon, you're no longer content with the games on your shelf. You've memorized rulebooks, sought out rare expansions, attended conventions, and hunted down the rarest of treasures in the obscurest of shops. You’ve crossed into the territory of an enthusiast, one who breathes in the scent of fresh cardboard and carefully scrutinizes every unboxing, review, and gameplay video. Yet your insatiable appetite leaves you hungry for more.

But where does it stop? When does the hobby consume the hobbyist like a bag of Cheetos?

You hear them whispering you’ve crossed the line, but you know better. You’ve seen them—the others who’ve succumbed to the madness. They whisper of legendary collections hidden deep in forgotten basements, shelves piled high like a temple to the Dark One. Sealed games, in numbers, that could never be opened within a single lifetime. Miniatures that will never feel the sweet caress of a paintbrush. These collectors—these worshippers of the dark priests, plastic and cardboard, are no longer curators of fun. They have surrendered to the madness to something deeper, something far more insidious.

One morning, you look in the mirror, and as you brush with your meeple toothbrush it hits you. The line has vanished. Your games are no longer about play; they are artifacts, relics of your obsession. A voice whispers in the back of your mind, quiet at first, but growing louder with each new addition: "One more. Just one more, it’s fine, everything is fine!"

So where do you stand? A player, an enthusiast... or a collector, lost to the void? Perhaps, in the end, it’s not you who owns the games, but the games that own you.