How to Master Card Tongits and Win Every Game You Play
I remember the first time I fired up Civilization VII, expecting to guide my empire from ancient tribes to futuristic megacities. That initial excitement quickly turned to confusion when I realized the timeline simply stopped around the 1960s. As someone who's spent over 500 hours across various Civilization titles, this design choice struck me as particularly puzzling. The Modern Age in Civilization VII essentially covers what previous games would have split into at least two distinct eras—the Industrial Revolution through the Space Race. While I understand the developers' rationale about late-game fatigue, completely eliminating the Information Age feels like removing the final chapter from a novel. It's that strange sensation of building toward something that never arrives, like preparing for a marathon only to discover the finish line was moved ten miles back.
What fascinates me about this truncated timeline is how it reflects a broader conversation in game design about player engagement versus historical completeness. The statistics tell a compelling story—industry data suggests only about 15-20% of players consistently reach the Information Age in previous Civilization titles. I've been part of that statistic myself, sometimes abandoning games around the modern era when turns began taking upwards of ten minutes to process. Yet despite this completion rate, the knowledge that those advanced eras existed gave the early game more meaning. It created what game designers call "possibility space"—that thrilling uncertainty about what technological marvels might emerge if you played long enough. Without contemporary technologies like internet infrastructure, drone warfare, or renewable energy systems, Civilization VII's late-game decisions feel less impactful. You're essentially making choices knowing they won't lead to the technological revolutions that defined the late 20th and early 21st centuries.
From my experience both playing and analyzing strategy games, this design approach creates what I call "narrative dissonance." Your civilization develops nuclear weapons but never faces the cybersecurity threats that transformed modern warfare. Your cities industrialize but never grapple with digital economies or climate change policies. The most advanced military units remain tanks and fighter planes, ignoring how drone technology alone has revolutionized combat in recent decades. I've noticed this creates peculiar strategic limitations—without contemporary concerns like information warfare or global internet connectivity, diplomatic interactions feel strangely anchored in mid-20th century paradigms. The game presents Yuri Gagarin's 1961 space flight as humanity's pinnacle achievement, ignoring everything from the Moon landing to the International Space Station and private space companies that followed.
What's particularly interesting is how this design choice affects replayability. In my first three playthroughs of Civilization VII, each lasting approximately 25-30 hours, I found myself less motivated to start new games knowing the technological ceiling was substantially lower. The absence of technologies like artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, or even basic internet connectivity makes cultural victories feel equally truncated. You can't leverage social media's impact on cultural dissemination or navigate the complexities of global digital copyright laws. The game's wonderful cultural mechanics hit an artificial wall just as they approach contemporary relevance. I've spoken with other dedicated players who estimate this reduces their engagement by roughly 40% compared to previous titles, though that's admittedly anecdotal.
There's an important conversation here about game length versus game depth. Civilization campaigns have always been marathon sessions—my longest single game in Civilization VI lasted 52 hours across two weeks. The developers clearly sought to address the "unbearable slog" they mention by compressing the timeline. Yet in my professional opinion as someone who's written about game design for eight years, removing content seems like treating symptoms rather than causes. The real issues with late-game pacing—excessive micromanagement, lengthy AI turns, repetitive victory conditions—remain largely unaddressed. Instead, we've lost the thrill of guiding civilizations through the digital revolution that's transformed our actual world since the 1990s.
What surprises me most is how this design philosophy contrasts with player expectations in 2023. We live in an era where games like Crusader Kings III successfully implement complex systems spanning centuries without sacrificing accessibility. Modern processors handle computational loads that would have been unimaginable when earlier Civilization titles released. The technological excuses don't hold water like they might have a decade ago. This feels more like a philosophical choice—one that prioritizes streamlined experience over comprehensive simulation. For some players, that tradeoff works beautifully. For history enthusiasts like myself who cherish seeing technological evolution unfold across millennia, it leaves the experience feeling curiously incomplete, like a symphony that ends before the final movement.
Ultimately, my relationship with Civilization VII has become complicated. I appreciate its refined mechanics and stunning visual presentation, but I can't shake the feeling that something essential is missing. The game teaches us fascinating lessons about technological progression until approximately 1969, then simply stops. There's no representation of how microchips revolutionized society, how the internet connected humanity, or how smartphones put more computing power in our pockets than NASA used to reach the moon. These omissions don't just affect gameplay—they shape how players perceive historical continuity. We're left with a version of human achievement that ignores the most transformative decades in recent memory. While I'll continue playing Civilization VII for its many strengths, I'll always wonder what might have been had the developers found a more elegant solution to late-game pacing than simply eliminating the contemporary era altogether.