Kevin Wilson’s A Gentle Rain is like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with an infinite number of subjective solutions. When I play, I imagine each blossom is an interlocking mechanism: a swatch of Velcro or the precision-machined edges of a puzzle piece. On first blush, this is a game with goals more ambitious than “have some fun.” It wants you to be mindful with instructions about breathing and taking your time in playing it. It wants you to meditate and use some cardboard and plastic to do so.
You will draw a tile, which has half of a colored flower on each of its four sides. You will place it next to an existing tile in your grid, such that a complete flower is made. If you ever create a 2×2 of tiles, there will be a perfect circular void for you to slot a chunky blossom matching one of the tile’s adjacent colors. A Gentle Rain taps into the tactility and satisfaction of tile-laying with little else to get in the way. The game is not without friction, but the friction itself is subtle enough to not harsh the vibe. If you err, you can create pockets where no tiles will fit. I imagine those impossible intersections to be the natural terminus of the lake. Even in this worse case scenario, you merely build out in the opposite direction.
Towards the end of the game, I find myself getting into a rhythm. I’ve spent ten minutes building out my lake, so I am familiar with what it needs. A blue flower with an orange one counter-clockwise. A red opposite to a yellow. Something with a purple on it. When I pull a tile, I take a breath and assess where it goes. Often, it provides no immediate benefit besides expanding the lake on one side, providing another one or two slots which I am now one tile short of completing.
A Gentle Rain is not reinventing the wheel here. Shuffling around pieces, being present at the table, focusing on something tangible rather than doom-scrolling or actively trying to be distracted. That is not only a description of A Gentle Rain; it is a description of hundreds of other board games I’ve played. But I would be remiss not to point out I do think this game has some special juice to it. Putting on some ambient music (I chose the thematically appropriate Water Memory by Emily A. Sprague) and playing a couple rounds got me in a specific, good mood. The mood to write this review, for one, after a couple days of intense writer’s block.
As I’ve played the game more, I have definitely gotten better at it. Knowing what shapes and patterns I should lean on and what pitfalls I should avoid. Considering which color blossoms to place depending on what openings I have elsewhere. My partner, who cannot play a single player game without trying to maximize it, enjoyed the game, too. For them, there is just enough strategy to keep things interesting. I (and you) will improve rapidly if interested in doing so, which is another layer of satisfaction A Gentle Rain provides. I don’t need to memorize tiles just as I don’t need to memorize the shape of puzzle pieces, rather I become more familiar with the pattern.
This is not your normal “cozy” game. It is not a game trying to emulate a warm hug or an imagined pastoral existence in a way that has become very popular. It is humble. It wants me to take the time to play it with care towards myself and what I am doing. I like placing tiles, so I place some tiles. I don’t like to be stressed, to be as overly anxious as I can get, so I’ll try not to. I’ll do something I enjoy doing: play boardgames.
Now, if I want to eat the blossoms because they look like bite-sized iced treats, I probably shouldn’t do that.
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