Kill Your Darlings

Arguably the most difficult part of designing a game is when you have to let go of what is merely good to make room for what can be truly great.

That’s exactly where I am right now.

For those who have been graciously playtesting and giving feedback, you’ve been more pivotal to this process than you can imagine. Truly. Over the course of 10 versions, more than 50 people—young and old, men and women, game enthusiasts and casual hobbyists alike—have played Singapore. Yet, despite this wide range of inputs, I’m still not ready to call the game ‘finished.’

It’s good, yes, but good isn’t enough.

To be honest, I thought MK10 would be the final version. It felt fun, balanced, clean—everything a game should be. I was convinced. This past weekend alone, I hosted seven separate playtest sessions, and up until the fifth, I was still pretty sure it was ready.

But then came sessions six and seven.

And suddenly, the cracks started to show.

You see, as the designer, you experience the game in a way that’s hard to describe. When I go to meetups, house parties and gatherings, each time painstakingly setting up the game, or watching players get lost in the mechanics, I don’t just observe—I feel what they feel. Whatever the players feel in the game - boredom, confusion, frustration, or even the positive emotions like fun, connection, eureka, I feel it tenfold.

I've always held firmly the belief that games are emotional experiences at their core. All our mechanics, all the aesthetics, are merely vessels to deliver those emotions.

And so, when i observe and step into the shoes of the players, when i feel what they feel, that in itself is a treasure trove of emotional information that is absolutely crucial for me as a game developer. Players don't need to say a word; their expressions convey more than enough.

Take the card effects, for example. Each card had its own unique effect, triggering instantly when played—some gave bonuses at Raffles Place, others let players move buildings around. To me, this was essential. It gave each card character, made them exciting as they were revealed. But these effects, I’ve realized, also slowed the game down. Players leaned in to read each new card, taking time to clarify or decipher what they meant. A moment or two here, a question there—it doesn’t seem like much, but it adds up.

That's perfectly fine, you may think. 'Plenty of games face this phenomenon' you say. And you are right. Even I thought so too! It is indeed fine to clarify a few things, especially with varied groups of people of different backgrounds, all new to the game.

I know what you’re thinking. “What?! No! These effects gave the game its heart, its flavor!” And yes, they did. But they also buried that heart under layers of unnecessary complexity.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to kill my darlings. Six years ago, when I was developing Rats to Riches, I had a similar experience. Back then, my course mate linked me up with his economics professor, Dr. Reza, to get feedback. We played Rats to Riches in his office for less than five minutes before he told me, bluntly, “This game is rubbish. It’s too complicated. A good game needs to be like Chess—simple rules, infinite possibilities.”

It’s a tough lesson. We often think more content equals a better game. But truly great games are built on simplicity—a simplicity that is earned through countless tough decisions. It’s about stripping away the excess to uncover the core essence, the magic of the experience. That's what we miss, what we take for granted when we see the finished product.

Now, as I face this latest round of cuts—eliminating not just card effects, but also individual locations, merging them into Districts—I’m reminded of that lesson once again. Do I stick with what’s comfortable, or do I take the leap, cut the cord and kill my darlings?