by Robby Boey

The Museum Spark

The whole story of Abbates traces back to a single weekend outing: a perfectly ordinary visit to museum M in Leuven, Belgium. Museums usually inspire me to admiration, contemplation, and maybe jealousy when confronted with artists who clearly have a greater talent than I do. Yet, halfway through the galleries, it was the museum gift shop that lodged the fateful splinter in my brain. Among books and postcards sat a board game derived from one of the museum’s artworks. That’s when my wife, who works at Bornem Abbey, turned to me and said, almost mischievously, “Wouldn’t it be great if we used Bornem Abbey as our own board game?”

At first, it was just a thought experiment. But museums have a way of making ideas feel serious, as though monks, curators, and old medieval books are silently nodding in approval. By the time we were back home, the little notion had become a not-so-little itch; this could actually work. The abbey is practically begging to become cardboard: artifacts, stained glass, libraries, abbots, architecture, history, the works. And there’s something magical about transforming physical cultural heritage into a playful, interactive medium… a kind of preservation-through-play.

Tiles, Heraldry, Cards, Grids, and the First Meeple

The first draft was tile-based because of course it was: tile-layers are the early evolutionary stage of most Euro designs. I imagined players building a stylized abbey using square tiles, connecting rooms via coats of arms of abbots printed along the edges. It wasn’t terrible. It was even charming in that “this should probably be sold next to puzzles and tea towels” kind of way.

But testing quickly revealed its limits: calm, pleasant, and almost entirely devoid of tension. It was the board game equivalent of a monk humming a lullaby in Gregorian chant.

I felt the abbey deserved more verve, not chaos, but interaction. I wanted something where players would look up, watch each other, second-guess each other, and occasionally mutter mild insults under their breath.

Shifting from tiles to cards unlocked new design space. The game transformed into a 4×4 grid of cards on the table, with a solitary meeple marching around like a tiny abbot conducting inspections, moved by the roll of a die. Activating a row or column allowed players to claim a card from it. A neat mechanism with just enough positional tension to matter, especially as every row and column also had their own effect that would benefit the winner of that round. But who got to claim first? Enter the first appearance of bidding cards numbered 1–13. Simple, but competitive. A touch of interaction, without turning into a knife fight.

Already players were comparing intentions: “You want that stained-glass? Or are you bluffing?” The game was learning to talk socially.

Shrinking the Abbey and Growing the Puzzle

The next breakthrough came by shrinking the central 4×4 grid into a tighter 3×3. That small reduction made everything more deliberate as fewer spaces meant fewer choices and more pressure. Adding in a personal player tableau on which you would place the cards you won was another needed layer of gameplay. Now players didn’t just acquire cards, they needed to store them in their personal tableau. Rows and columns formed gentle patterns and scoring lines.

Then I mirrored the central meeple onto each personal tableau. Your own meeple determined where newly drafted cards could be placed. No longer could players lazily optimize. The game began to tease, challenge, restrict. And when games tease, players lean in.

With three cards per side around the 3×3 grid, there were three opportunities per round to bid. Initially, all bids were submitted blind and simultaneously. The idea worked logically; emotionally it felt bone-dry. Everyone revealed, shrugged, assigned cards, and moved on.

What finally clicked after several test sessions with the amazing team of Bornem Abbey was sequential – open bidding. Each bidding moment became a micro-auction: clockwise, highest card wins, ties forbidden. Suddenly players had agency in tempo. Adding an advantage to the lowest bid, made underbidding a tactic by itself. Seize the initiative next round and additionally force oneself into taking the blind from the draw pile; a form of gamble that often paid off in surprising ways.

The scoring system also matured around this time: three of a kind in a line scored 10, two scored 6, mismatches 3. It meshed beautifully with the abbey’s thematic triad: artifacts, stained glass, library books, and gave visitors a taste of actual abbey content without forcing it down their throats.

Beans, Beans, the Monastic Currency and Rules

And then… beans. Yes, beans.

With rows of cards on your personal tableau now providing points, I added a central tableau, the abbey chapter room, on which you had a score track for… negative points. Tying this in with the cards proved to be a fresh new mechanic, another layer in the game. Low bidding cards gained white beans (up to four), indicating how far the central meeple marched on this track. High values bore fewer or none.

Efficient for winning auctions, disastrous for bean logistics.

Meanwhile collected cards bestowed black beans, advancing the personal meeple. And at game’s end, the distance between central and personal meeples produced negative points, resulting in a monastic bean-based tug-of-war.

Mechanically it added tempo management, shared-race pressure, and a new layer of tension. Thematically it became a playful abstraction of the actual voting system in abbeys. More importantly, playtesters kept talking about beans afterward. When players talk about a mechanism after the table is packed up, design is doing its job.

The cards proved to be even more of a treasure vault for new mechanics. Every abbey needs rules, so ours gained one: St. Benedict’s. It rewarded players for sequencing bids cleverly: 1–7 first, 8–13 second, then even, then odd. Do it right and you earned a glorious 14-value card, worth a victory point at the end. It nudged players toward intentionality without being prescriptive. It also supplied flavor as monks love order, after all. Now everything clicks and the different mechanics just click.

Feedback

Thus armed, we marched to the Spel convention in Antwerp in November 2024 with five professionally printed prototypes. The booth was lively, feedback plentiful, and best of all, genuine strangers smiled while playing. This cannot be overstated: strangers are the ultimate calibrators of fun. Friends lie. Family lies. Colleagues lie because they must see you at lunch. Only random convention-goers express truth.

People praised the tension and pace, but they also nudged the weak spots: scoring was a little too predetermined, patterns a bit too solvable, and the Rule of St. Benedict too predictable after repeat plays. All fair. All fixable.

Back in our “war room,” scoring underwent surgery. Fixed 10/6/3 lines melted away and three starting revealed cards determined scoring values: 3/2/1 points per card for the three types. Instantly every game became a different economic ecosystem.

Mission cards entered next with spatial objectives promising five points for pattern completion and halving negative bean-distance if fully satisfied. They gave structure, identity, and long-term ambition to players’ tableaus.

The Rule of St. Benedict became modular via two double-sided guides per player, offering unique sequences and higher replay value. Suddenly players had strategic identities instead of purely tactical reactions.

The prototype now felt alive and, importantly, replayable.

A Deadline, a Printer, and Several Sleepless Months

Then came the twist worthy of a thriller; the city of Bornem joined forces with the abbey to help fund a first run on the condition that the game launch by April 2025. When this condition was agreed, it was January. We still needed to finalize rules, translate gameplay into precise language, prep InDesign files, negotiate printing, and manufacture on time without resorting to cargo ships that behave like slow, unpredictable sea turtles.

We selected Fabryka Kart: European, reliable, communicative, and they delivered with clock-like precision. Rulebooks printed, components boxed, meeples lacquered, games shrink-wrapped. In April, copies stood proudly for sale at the abbey. All this done at the end with many sleepless nights, working and editing, typing and designing.

Nineteen months all-in-all from spark to shelf.

Pontifex Games Begins & Closing Reflections

The funniest part of the whole odyssey is that the game was meant to be a one-off cultural project. Instead, it became the cornerstone of a publishing house: Pontifex Games. As of writing, we already have our second game, Sacra Maioritas out, an expansion for Abbates and our third release, Via Peregrina, slated for February 2026. Apparently once you’ve printed one game, it’s difficult to stop. Monastic vices take many forms…

In retrospect, designing for a real institution, with its own history, identity, and a tourism footprint, shaped countless design decisions. It demanded theme without theatrics, elegance without sterility, accessibility without boredom. And it revealed how physical sites and cultural spaces can find new life in cardboard.

If I learned anything, it’s that creativity also thrives on constraints: theme, deadlines, and funding all played their part. And through all of it, the game stayed fun. Which, in the end, is the only reason to make one.