Hmph. So you want to know what I think of 7 Wonders Duel, eh? Fine. Sit down, shut up, and prepare for disappointment.
First off, they say it’s a “two-player” game. Two. Players. That’s not a duel, that’s just two goblins glaring at each other over cardboard. Where’s the chaos? Where’s the backstabbing? I want twelve goblins screaming and stealing resources, not polite turn-taking.
And these wonders you’re supposed to build? Pah! Fancy pyramids and gardens! Why would I waste my precious brick and stone making some frilly temple when I could be building a proper goblin trap pit? Plus, they cost so many resources you basically have to sell your goblin soul to finish one.
Oh, and the military track… You just move a little token back and forth, like some sad tug-of-war for civilized folk. If I win a military battle, I expect fire, destruction, and the enemy’s hut in pieces—not a smug little “You advanced three spaces.”
Don’t get me started on the science symbols. “Collect six for an instant win!” they say. Oh yes, because nothing screams fun like losing to someone who hoarded compasses while you were busy building an army. That’s not science, that’s witchcraft.
In short: Too civilized, too polite, and too much thinking, not enough smashing. If you want my advice, toss the box in the swamp, get some sticks, and settle your disputes the goblin way—loudly and with a lot of broken furniture.
Final score: 2 out of 10 rusty daggers. Would not raid again.
The Rotten Rise of Krizbella
Long before she was “Princess of Disappointment,” Krizbella was born in the dank, dripping caverns beneath the Swamp of 1000 Leeches. Her first cry wasn’t a wail — it was a grumble. The midwife swore she scowled at the world before she even opened her eyes.
From the start, Krizbella refused to play like the other goblin whelps. While her clutchmates happily wrestled mud slugs or stole shiny pebbles, she would sit with her arms crossed, muttering that the slugs were “slimy and stupid” and the pebbles “all the wrong shapes.” Still, the other goblins adored her grouchiness. A goblin who could complain louder than a troll burp? Clearly destined for greatness.
As she grew, Krizbella developed a talent for finding fault in everything:
She told the shamans their spells “smelled like burnt fungus.”
She mocked the chieftain’s war plans as “cube-pushing nonsense.”
She insulted the swamp spirits for being “too drippy.”
Instead of being punished, the tribe crowned her with a crooked gold crown stolen from a passing caravan. “If she’s going to complain about everything,” the goblins said, “let her do it royally.”
It was around then she met High Chief Jugbite the Grim. He was the only goblin stubborn enough not to be driven mad by her constant scolding. Some say he fell in love when she called him a “stupid, tusk-faced lummox” during a raid. The two married in the traditional goblin fashion: biting each other until both were satisfied.
Now, Krizbella rules beside Jugbite. She’s less a queen and more a permanent critic-in-chief. She scoffs at goblin feasts (“too crunchy”), sneers at war loot (“shinies are too shiny”), and rants endlessly about human board games (“where are the goblins?!”). And yet, the tribe loves her. A goblin princess who snarls, growls, and keeps everyone else miserable? That’s leadership.
High Chief Jugbite the Grim