I played Avalon recently, a social deduction game created by Don Eskridge. It is typically played in person as a board game but is also available in online versions. Designed for 5 to 10 players, Avalon draws on bluffing, persuasion, and lots of group strategy. Its target audience ranges from casual players looking for social intrigue to more strategic players who enjoy deduction and role-based storytelling. During my playthrough, I reflected on how the game unfolded and how it brought out aspects of my communication style, my group role, and my decision-making under pressure.
When I played Avalon, I thought I was there to win quests and unmask spies, but I left with a more profound sense of how I react to ambiguity, suspicion, and leadership under social pressure. As a game of hidden roles, Avalon thrives on partial information: some players, like Merlin or Percival, know more than others, while the rest either lie or search for the truth. In this fog of uncertainty, I noticed my usual communication style (careful, reserved, and observant) slowly shift. I spoke more than I typically would in a large group but didn’t position myself as a leader. Instead, I asked pointed questions and leaned into a quiet but strategic style of analysis. I paid close attention to other players’ tone, phrasing, and inconsistencies. Avalon turned me into the group’s unofficial interrogator, and I was surprised to realize how much I enjoyed that role.
Unlike lighter bluffing games like Among Us, where fast decision-making dominates, I think Avalon rewards patient, detail-oriented, and socially perceptive players. I wasn’t assigned a special role like Merlin, but naturally began acting like one. I’d watch the board, remember who voted for which mission, and keep track of behavioral shifts. For example, when one player accused another early on and suddenly flipped their stance, that triggered my suspicion. I didn’t call them out directly, but I started asking questions that nudged the group to reconsider their choices. This experience reminded me that even in real life, I often occupy a similar middle-ground role in group decision-making. Avalon’s mechanics brought this tendency to the surface, showing that my strength in social games lies both in dominating the room and making space for uncertainty and challenging it constructively.
I think one of Avalon’s most clever design choices is how it compels players to read social behavior as the main source of information. There are no random dice rolls or cards to shift the game – just people, speech, and trust. This design centers on emotional intelligence as a game skill, encouraging players to pay attention to what others say and how they say it. Compared to games like Secret Hitler, which can often escalate quickly into chaotic accusations, Avalon operates slower, making every decision feel more deliberate. There’s room for narratives to develop over multiple rounds, which amplifies both the tension and the satisfaction of unraveling a mystery over time. That said, this structure can unintentionally exclude quieter players. In our game, one friend who normally thrives in casual games struggled to find their voice. Their silence was interpreted as suspicious when, in fact, they were simply unsure of how to insert themselves into the conversation. While the game doesn’t intend to punish introverted players, its dynamics naturally favor those who can be vocal and persuasive. One possible improvement could be structured reflection phases – short, timed moments where each player is prompted to speak – offering more space for diverse communication styles.
The game’s reliance on lying and deception raises an important ethical question: is it morally wrong to lie within the context of a game? I would say it’s not the case. In Avalon, lying is not only expected but almost essential to the gameplay. All players enter with the shared understanding that deception is part of the rules, which makes it fundamentally different from lying in real life. In fact, Avalon highlights the performance of trust and identity rather than the act of deception itself. It’s not just about tricking others, but about maintaining a consistent and believable character within the game’s fictional narrative. However, despite this shared understanding, emotional dissonance can still emerge. I remember being deceived by a friend I had just defended in front of the group. While we both laughed about it afterward, I couldn’t shake the brief feeling of betrayal. This could show that even consensual deception can have emotional consequences, especially when it intersects with real-life relationships. Avalon could not just simulate lying as it also stimulates misplaced trust, making it compelling and emotionally charged.
Framing this through the MDA framework helped me better understand how the game’s formal elements shaped my experience. The core mechanic of hidden roles created dynamics of suspicion and alliance-building, which produced the aesthetic of social tension. It’s not driven by points or leveling up but by a deep emotional engagement with who to trust and why. Avalon also touches on “fellowship” and “challenge” as aesthetic goals: players feel the thrill of working as a team, even as they second-guess each other’s motives. The game also turns social interaction into the main game space by emphasizing interpersonal dynamics over in-game systems. I believe the game’s design doesn’t just mirror real-life group behavior; it sharpens it into a mirror reflecting back our instincts and social patterns.
