We were playing Magic: The Gathering, a strategy card game which casts players as powerful mages with the ability to travel across a universe of elaborate fantasy worlds. Commanding a force of shaven-headed monks, he’d evaded and deflected my crushing attacks, landing quick, stinging blows whenever I dropped my guard, the Bruce Lee to my Andre the Giant. My adversary, a softly spoken twentysomething in a t-shirt bearing the indecipherable logo of a Scandinavian extreme metal band, had adopted the opposite strategy. My plan was simple: overrun anyone who stood in front of me – brutal, lumbering but ultimately effective. I’d assembled an army of shrieking apes, giant bipedal mammoths and armour-plated rhinos. My opponent and I had been exchanging blows and counter attacks for what seemed like hours, and now we sat, silent and depleted, like two punch-drunk prizefighters awaiting the final round of a gruelling championship bout.
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