“Terraforming Mars? More like Terrifying Wallets.”

So, you’re telling me the plan is to… fix an entire planet. Ha! I can barely keep my goblin cave from flooding in the rainy season, and these smug human engineers think they can slap a few plants, oceans, and space lasers on Mars and call it a day.

You get your own little corporation, some shiny project cards, and a handful of resources—plants, heat, steel, and so on. Sounds fine until you realize EVERYTHING costs a fortune. Want to build a forest? Pay up. Want an ocean? More coin. Want to shoot down your rival’s space station? Still more coin! My goblin purse weeps by turn two.

And the cards—oh, the cards. You draw a handful each round, but you have to pay to keep them. That’s right—sometimes you’ll pay for the privilege of holding onto a card you can’t even play for ten turns. It’s like buying a goat just to keep it tied in the yard so it can eat your socks.

The game’s all about balancing your economy, timing big projects, and sneakily raising the global parameters—temperature, oxygen, oceans—before your rivals snatch the glory. There’s satisfaction when your city network sprawls across the red dust like a goblin mold, but more often than not, you’ll feel like your neighbor’s engine is running laps while yours is still stuck cranking the starter.

And don’t even get me started on the milestones and awards. You think you’re set to win “Gardener,” then some sneaky Mars-weed farmer plays three greenery tiles in a row and steals it right from under your warty nose.


Grumpy Goblin Verdict:

  • + Deliciously deep strategy, heaps of different cards, lots of nasty combos.
  • Takes longer than a goblin family feud.
  • Economy so tight you can hear your credits squeal.
  • The “pay to keep cards” rule feels like a cruel tax on hope.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stolen oxygen tanks. Fun, but I need a nap and a bigger coin pouch after.

By High Chief Jugbite the Grim

Jugbitе earned his name the old-fashioned way—by biting a jug. Not once, but many times, until the jug shattered and half his teeth went with it. Instead of shame, he wore the scars proudly, declaring, “If a jug can’t bite back, it deserves to be chewed.” From that day, the goblins called him Jugbite—and none dared mock him unless they wanted a pottery shard in the eye. He’s a hulking goblin by cave standards—stooped, scarred, with a face like a smashed lantern. His eyes are yellow and perpetually squinted, as if the world itself irritates him (which it does). He wears a patchwork cloak stitched from banners looted off human adventurers, and a crown made of twisted spoons, because he says “metal tastes better than gold.” Known for his grim demeanor, Jugbite doesn’t laugh. Ever. When other goblins cackle and scheme, he just grumbles, spits, and plots in silence. His voice is gravel in a stewpot, and when he growls an order, goblins obey out of sheer unease. Yet he’s clever—too clever. Jugbite organizes raids with military precision, striking caravans at night, vanishing before dawn. He’s also a ruthless collector of shinies, especially anything ceramic—cups, pots, jugs. Rumor says he keeps a cavern piled high with them, gnawed and cracked, trophies of his endless grudge against pottery. To his followers, Jugbite is both terrifying and oddly inspiring: a goblin too stubborn to die, too mean to smile, and too cunning to overthrow.

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