MUNCHKIN
HOLLYWOOD

Liam McIntyre

TV. It’s a bright, shiny box filled with pretty pictures and good times. It’s introduced you to a host of colorful characters and conflicts that have helped you escape the pressures of the real world. And sometimes, if the moons align, it brings people together.

Come to think of it, TV is a lot like Munchkin, which also comes in a bright, shiny box filled with pretty pictures and good times. It’s a great way to escape the stresses of daily life and can bring people together. Why, I could even stretch this to encompass the whole entertainment industry, if I look at it just right. . . .

I think I’m on to something here.

Munchkin Hollywood hasn’t been released as an official expansion yet (I’m looking at you, Mr. Jackson), but it’s one that I’ve had a lot of real-world experience with over the past few years. Like all the other versions of Munchkin you or I have ever played, it’s built around a simple dynamic: barge into a situation (possibly unprepared), stab your buddies, and steal their treasure. From there, it transmogrifies into the greatest, most constantly changing story you’ve ever told, complete with triumphs and setbacks, teamwork, treachery, wheeling and/or dealing, and ultimately the most fun you’ve had since that time you got drunk and limboed into the prevailing wind with your pants off. (Or so I’m told.) In fact, the game is so much fun, the moment you wrap up one session, you can’t wait to do it all again. (Television, that is, not the pantsless limbo.)

“A new version of Munchkin? How does it work? How do you play?” I pretend to hear you ask excitedly.

Well, let me tell you.

It all starts with you looking for a class card in your initial hand. There are a lot of them out there: Character Actor, Reality TV Star, Publicist, Baldwin – a veritable cornucopia of roles to fill. You scan your starting hand and, lo and behold, you find your class straight away: Actor. Great. You’ve heard about these guys. They’re usually broke, so you might want to get ready to sell your starting loot for a level, just to get a leg up.

Now’s as good a time as any to take a look around the densely packed table. The heavyset guy over there got Producer. He’s already doing deals with his neighbors and shaking hands. Oh dear. That skinny woman in the power tie, looking shifty and sizing everyone up, could be an Agent, but, no, she turns out to be the Writer. Keep your eye on her. One of your best friends seems to have settled on Extra. You’ve never liked that role; it could be a long game for her. The Critic seems to have wound up in the hands of the chatty one over there, who doesn’t seem to get out much and is really struggling to make friends. And that guy in the scarf, the one organizing his cards in the most dramatically satisfying way possible? He just flipped up the Director.

The game starts and everyone jockeys for initial position, equipping their characters and squirreling away cards they hope to call upon in time of dire need – which will come along soon enough. There are a few halfhearted fights, but nothing notable enough to make the trades.

Your turn finally rolls around. Boom! You kick down a door with misguided enthusiasm. The monster staring you in the face is a level 1 Audition. The card describes the gig as “featured extra in a forgettable telemovie.” Bad Stuff: “Nothing. No one cares.” How vaguely depressing. But it’s sitting right there in front of you, trying to make you fear it, so you might as well get this over with.

Since you’ve sold all your stuff, you’re level 2. “You’re no match for me, Audition!” you proclaim in your head. Wait a minute. Did you say that out loud? Your friends smile politely. Yep, you did. How embarrassing. Well, no matter; you’re ready for battle and nothing can foil your triumph. You’re reaching for the level token when one of those smiling friends, the Producer, lays down a card: “Perfect Headshot.” He steals your monster, takes your treasure, and claims your level. There’s nothing you can do about it but congratulate him on a move well played. (That and silently add his name to the box in your head marked Revenge!)

The game rolls on. A whole lot of nothing happens. To you, at least. Everyone else seems to be having a ball. Your Director friend needs a couple of levels to beat a monster and get further ahead. (A Late-Night Dating Infomercial? You almost laugh, but manage to keep the pro face on when doing the deal.) In return for your help, he’ll give you a card he can’t use: “Acting Coach” +3 (Actors Only). That’ll help you fight the more difficult things lurking behind the doors to come. And, hey, it’s better than the big pile of nothing you have now, right? Sure, pal. Enjoy your level.

Boom! You kick down another door, this time with gusto (and pesto; in all the excitement, you dropped your corn chip). You and your new +3 Acting Coach sidekick are ready to roll! Then your heart sinks. There it is. The BIG one: Star-Making Audition, level 20. You’re nowhere near ready for this. Nope. You’ll never beat it and take its treasure. Worse, the Bad Stuff that happens when you fail is pretty bad: “If you’re higher than level 3, it destroys your career. Discard whole hand and lose two levels.” Hold on, though. With your whopping two levels, that doesn’t apply to you, does it? Let’s see: “Level 3 and below, it stands there and mocks you mercilessly. Then it takes your footgear, for some reason.” (Hollywood is weird like that. Isn’t it meant to be “the shirt off your back”? Maybe that’s Munchkin Vegas.)

It’s hopeless. You brace for the worst – and then it happens. Your buddies around the table see your two measly levels. You pose no threat to any of them, so as a group they offer you something that, at that moment, is the greatest thing in the world: pity. They’re all willing to chip in and help you. For a price, of course. (This is a game of Munchkin, after all.)

Of course, you recognize this act of generosity for what it really is: an easy opportunity to take advantage of a guy down on his luck and get some loot in the process. But a win’s a win, right? You take a heaping spoonful of their pity, and you serve yourself up two new levels. Best of all, you only had to give away three of your five treasures. You came away with an “Armor-ni Suit” +1 (+4 if you’re George Clooney) and a “Secluded Two-Bedroom HQ” +1 (+3 against Paparazzi). Haven’t they played this game before? Suckers.

Your march to victory has started in earnest. The opening gambits are over, and the middle game is heating up for everyone. Pity may have given you a leg up, but you’re in the big leagues now. A few more turns and you’re neck and neck with the leaders. Friends are falling away, and even the few you have left are eyeing you with poorly concealed annoyance. It was inevitable that you’d end up burning them, like you just did when the Writer asked for your help against a Horribly Written Script. Hey, you needed all the cards in your hand for your next combat. Besides, she got out of trouble with her Wishing Ring of Great Acting, even without your help, right?

Unfortunately, those annoyed chickens come home to roost almost immediately.

Another door opens in front of you. Another monster: First Script, level 12. Not too shabby. You’re sitting on a cool 15 (and you didn’t even have to be George Clooney). Better yet, defeating this First Script will get you a level and a veritable buttload of treasure. You dare to hope for a moment that everyone will leave you alone to take out the threat. You check your cards again, trying not to draw attention to yourself. Don’t look nervous. Just another turn going on. Nothing to see here. These certainly aren’t the droids you’re looking for. No, sir.

They’re not going to buy it. Your pity play and the betrayals that followed are too fresh in their memories. Besides, you’re strong now. A threat to win. The Writer is the first to pipe up: “Do we want to let him take this one?” But it’s the Critic (what a jerk) who makes the ever-deadly observation: “The Actor will be really close to winning if he gets this.” That makes the others pause and, like a single, vengeful organism, they pounce. “A Last Minute Script Change” is the first card to fall, followed by “With a Dialogue Coach” and a couple more for good measure. All of a sudden, you’re not facing a simple First Script, but a Scary, Career Defining First Script With a Dialogue Coach and a Last Minute Script Change. It’s, like, level 31 now.

That stinks. Better check the Bad Stuff.

“It ruins you. Lose your class, items, and dignity. Also lose your footgear, for some reason.”

Go figure.

That’s all right. Just run away. You can come back from this. It’s not worth the risk. And you’re ready to go, die in hand, when the Producer slowly reaches for his cards. You grimace. He lays down “The Contract.” The text on this one is written in teeny-tiny small print and seems to go on forever, but you eventually get to it: “Play when any Actor enters combat. Prevents Actor from running away.”

Well, that’s just a pain, but like all Hollywood contracts there’s a loophole: “Actor may discard all cards and still run away.”

And an amendment to the loophole: “Actors who run away will never work in this town again. You might as well be dead.” Guess you’d better win.

You’d ask for help, but everyone seems to be plotting against you. And smiling. Like it’s a game or something. Jerks. Except your one buddy over there, the Extra. She still seems friendly, like the game’s been hard on her and she just needs a hug. But her cards suck. Even if she wanted to, she can’t help you.

You can dispose of your +3 Acting Coach to get a one-off bonus of +10. Damn, better do that. That puts you at 22. What else have we got here . . . ? You desperately deploy the Eccentric Director (+5 to side of your choice) you’d been saving for late in the game. And, oh dear, that buddy of yours is the only one you can use the card “Steal Another Actor’s Lines” on. This gives you another +5, but forces the victim to give up all his cards. You smile apologetically at the Extra as you play the card, but she receives the half-hearted apology with the dead eyes of a murderer. That doesn’t bode well, but you’ll have to cross that bridge when you come to it. The good news is you’ve got it! It cost almost your whole hand, and a longstanding allegiance with the Extra, but gosh darn it, you beat this script.

Wait, what did the Critic just put down? “Reshoot”? Oh, no! Combat voided. It’s like it never happened, except all the cards everyone played are lost. No levels. No treasures. Just one more name for the Revenge! Box.

This is pretty typical of the combats that mark the transition of a Munchkin session from the second act to the finale. Throughout the game, Munchkin’s rules encourage everyone to work together in a web of ever-shifting alliances, sometimes struggling toward mutual victories, sometimes foiling another player’s rush for glory. In the middle game, players can still convince themselves that they have a chance, that there’s a yellow-brick path to victory if they just play their cards right. That all comes to a close around the time the first player hits level 7. After that, each turn takes on magnified significance. Botch a combat and you screw up your chance to win, or, even worse, you clear the path to victory for someone else.

The endgame frequently kicks off with someone springing a trap card on the leader. “TV Rerun” is a classic. It makes you fight the topmost monster in the discard pile. Unfortunately for the current leader, that card is “The Ever-Shrinking Budget.” It’s not just the healthy level – 13 – that’s the problem, though. This particular monster ignores the Director’s level in combat, and guess who’s in the lead? Bad Stuff: “Trip on the bottom line. Go down two levels, and drop all your Big items.” No help from anyone else is forthcoming and the Director fails at running away, so he kisses his levels and his +3 Megaphone of Authority goodbye. He’s lucky to escape with his Puffy Pants intact.

Small skirmishes follow. Somewhere along the way, your erstwhile ally the Extra plays “Steal the Scene, Go Up a Level,” positioning herself to make a run for the lead, but you bring her down a notch with a sneaky “Writer Cuts Your Dialogue” trap. (Again? You really are a bad person, you know.) You can declare that alliance dead and buried. Ah, well.

Finally it’s the Producer’s turn. At level 9, he’s hoping that at least some of those earlier handshake-sealed deals will pay off. The table holds its breath. The people do, too. The Producer kicks down the door.

Lurking there is a seemingly harmless action card, “Press Embargo.” It lets you stop one player from using cards or abilities for two turns. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief and waits for the Producer to loot the room and move on. He doesn’t, though. He looks for trouble – in this case a level 18 Studio Executive drawn from his hand. (The John Kovalic art for this one is a smile holding a machine gun. I think I know the model.) There’s no running from this guy. He comes in smiling and fires everyone in his field of vision. Bad Stuff: “Everybody’s fired. You’re dead and go down two levels, unless –” everyone perks up at this “– you play a card to help the Studio Executive to win the combat.”

The sweet smell of self-preservation hangs in the air. The Producer shifts uneasily in his seat, trying to look confident. He knew there would be risks, but you have to play the cards you have when the opportunity to win arises. The Critic clears her throat, which suggests she must have a doozy of a punishment to dole out on this one. Everyone else seems a bit more unsure of themselves.

But the Producer’s no fool. He’s prepared for the war. He’s level 9. Add +2 thanks to “Nifty Track Record of Success.” That brings him to 11. Next comes “Expensive Shiny Suit of Blinding,” +4. “Far Too Fancy and Intimidating Luxury SUV” gives him a helpful +6. “Friend in Production” and “Sterling Silver Tongue” both send +5 his way. When all his cards are played and bonuses tallied, he’s sitting on 36. This fight isn’t going to be pretty.

Nervous players eye their fellow munchkins with scarcely suppressed suspicion. Nobody wants to burn all their best cards, but if they hesitate, they risk the Producer running over them as he storms to victory. (Did you see how fancy and intimidating his SUV is?) Besides, only total idiots oppose Studio Executives.

One by one, players throw in a card. The Director and the Critic race each other for the chance to help first. Both offer big-point cards. From the Director it’s “Evil” (+5 to Monster), and from the Critic it’s “With a Reputation” (also +5). So The Producer is now staring at an Evil Studio Executive With a Reputation, level 28. Not good enough.

The Writer throws in a Wandering Monster. Adding a Star With a Bloated Contract to the Executive’s posse is a nice touch, but it’s only level 6. That gets the opposition up to 34. We’re still short.

All eyes turn to you, and you shrug noncommittally. The Extra mutters something guaranteed to get the MPAA to slap the conversation with an R. Then she grumbles “Difficult Actor” – the card, not the person, though she is glaring in your direction as she says it. That will be another +5 for the Studio Executive.

Before the card leaves the Extra’s hand, though, the Producer slaps her with that “Press Embargo” he’d just acquired. Guess it wasn’t so harmless after all. Locked out of the action, the Extra can only scowl and, like extras everywhere, wait for the featured players to get their acts together.

The Producer leans back in his chair, takes a fistful of potato chips, and stuffs them in his mouth, savoring the taste. The other munchkins wilt under his triumphant gaze. He lets out a hearty laugh.

That’s when you strike, with a card you’ve been holding since the start of the game: “Plot Device.” (See what I did there?) It puts the target’s combat strength at one point more than its opponent’s, no matter how far behind it is, so the Studio Executive is now at 37. You and the Writer share knowing looks. It’s her favorite card, after all. Just in case the Producer holds anything else useful in his depleted hand, the Writer throws “Executive Producer” and shouts “That’s a wrap!” No one else can play a card, so the battle is over.

The Studio Executive does his damage. The Producer is dead, and the Extra along with him. You try to argue that the Extra technically tried to help out in combat (hey, you owed it to her for old time’s sake), but the majority vote her to Extra Valhalla. The Critic can barely contain her glee as she takes the first grab at your loot. Otherwise it’s high-fives among the other survivors and a massive sigh of relief at the disaster you banded together to avert.

No one has quite recovered from the Studio Executive Massacre by the time your turn rolls around again. You couldn’t have planned it any better.

You’re at level 8, so you sell everything except for your Artistic Integrity. (That gives you +3.) It all adds up to a level, so you’re suddenly on the threshold of victory.

Your fellow munchkins are nervous. Just look at that Director sweat. Ah, life is sweet. But you can’t get too cocky. A glance down at the cards you have left reminds you that you’re looking pretty naked, but that’s the price you sometimes pay to be an Actor. (At least that’s what you tell yourself to get to sleep at night.)

With your Artistic Integrity clutched in a strategic location, you kick down what you hope will be the last door of the game. You also pray to whoever’s listening that you’re not going to come up against a level 20 Rehab Clinic or something equally challenging. (If you were a Reality TV Star, you’d love to turn up Rehab Clinic. You get levels from that battle whether you win or lose.) No, you want something simple, something you can stomp with ease.

You dramatically flip the card, revealing . . . Dual Threat, the Munchkin Hollywood equivalent of Super Munchkin.

That “Philanthropist” class card you’ve had hanging around in your hand for a while now comes into play because, why not? The Critic makes a comment about irony, but no one is listening.

Operation Win (it’s a technical term) continues. You don’t loot the room. That would be madness. Instead, you look for trouble and put down the only opponent from your own hand. Your final monster: “Heartbreaking Death Scene.” The Death Scene is level 12, but it might as well be level 100 for all the resources you have. (Okay, no; 100 would still be much worse.) That earlier fire sale suddenly looks a little less brilliant. You’re level 9, plus the bonus for your Artistic Integrity makes you 12. A tie. Typical.

The Bad Stuff doesn’t matter, because if you mess this up, you’re done. It’s back to the minor leagues and winning – well, winning will be what other people do.

You pause and wait for your fellow munchkins to toss in a few cards and bury you, but no one has a thing. The Press Embargo is still muting the Extra, and the Studio Executive battle has left everyone else pretty much toothless. Frantically you review the two cards left in your hand, as if reading them again will transform them into something useful. No such luck. They remain a curse card, “Lose Your Class,” and “Harsh Spotlight,” which makes the monster even more difficult to defeat.

Nothing. You’re still tied.

Maybe Operation Win wasn’t quite as smart as it first seemed, but at least you’re playing to type. Actors aren’t especially famous for their incredible long-term planning. They have other strengths – resiliency, blind hope, an ability to read and memorize words – but great foresight is not one of them.

Wait a minute: Learning words. That’s totally your thing. And you definitely read something important on your Class card. Read it again, you fool! “Actors win ties in combat against Scenes.”

You announce to the table that, against all odds, you are actually in a state of Win.

“I thought of the Actor’s ability to win on a tie, like, five minutes ago,” the Critic sneers.

For the first time ever, you’re grateful to the Critic. She’s drawing a lot of the annoyance that might otherwise be directed your way right now.

Still, no one deploys a card. Trying to mask your growing excitement, you tentatively ask, “So . . . um . . . does that mean . . . I . . . ?”

The Producer leans across the table, his hand extended. “Well done. It looks like you won the game.”

You breathe again. Everyone else breathes again. The table breathes again. People start munching on snacks and the room buzzes with cheerful conversation. Sure, some are a little disappointed at losing, but there’s a lot more to the game than that.

You’ve all been through a hell of a ride and told one hell of a story together. I mean, who won’t remember when the Extra took on the Postmodern Theatre Re-Enactment of a Miscast Big-Budget Comedy (consensus in the room made it Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Junior) armed with nothing but an Extra-Large Sense of Self-Importance, a Pillow, and some well-timed Olive Oil, only for the Writer to steal the victory at the last minute with a Renegotiated Contract? Of course the Writer got her comeuppance when she kicked down a door concealing an Eighties Child Star, only to have the nightmare compounded by the Critic, who added a truly awful Wandering Monster to the mix: a Paparazzo with a Telephoto Lens and Friends in the Tabloid Press. The Extra tried to save the day, to no avail. But, hey, she went down swinging at that Paparazzo with her Photo-Hating Radioactive Dog-in-a-Handbag.

By the time the dust settles and the cards are being gathered up and shuffled, you’re all buddies once more. Better friends than ever, in fact, and you can’t wait to start up a new story together.

As a great man once said: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely munchkins.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a buddy whose treasure needs stealing. . . .

 

Liam McIntyre is a giant nerd. He’s not shy about it. He spent too much of his life playing video games, collecting miniatures, and trying to invent new board games. This made him a real hit with the ladies. At some stage he decided he wanted to be an actor. Then, years later, he was surprised to discover that, all evidence to the contrary, he was, in fact, Spartacus. He’s also been known to menace the Flash in the guise of the Weather Wizard. Liam resides in Los Angeles, c/o The New World, with his beautiful wife, Erin, and a really great character in Skyrim. When he returns home to Terra Australis, he reconnects with his friends through the age-old art of Munchkin. It’s amazing they’re still friends, really. They’re pretty cool, too, in case you were wondering.