You’ve seen the photos. Lanterns flickering in the damp air. Ferns brushing your arms as you walk.
Shadows moving slow through moss-draped oaks.
But what is it really?
Not a festival. Not a brand launch. Not another app trying to sell you nature.
It’s the Game Event of the Year Undergrowthgameline.
A real thing. Rooted. Grown over time.
Held in the same woods every August.
I’ve been there five years straight. Sat with elders while they shaped game rules. Helped build two games from scratch.
One using cedar bark tokens, one mapping old trail stories onto living trees.
This isn’t about points or screens. It’s about kids teaching grandparents how to track deer by bent grass. It’s about teenagers laughing while untangling rope knots in the rain.
It’s about noticing how the light changes when the fog lifts at 4 p.m.
Most write-ups get this wrong. They call it “whimsical” or “quirky”. Like it’s a costume party for outdoorsy people.
It’s not.
I’m going to tell you what it actually is. No fluff. No buzzwords.
Just what happens on the ground. And why it sticks with people long after the lanterns go out.
How It Started: Backyard Magic, Not Big Plans
I helped run the first one. Twelve families. A patch of reclaimed woods in 2017.
We carved wooden tokens from fallen oak. Collected pinecones and river stones for markers. No budget.
Just stubborn belief.
No screens, no prizes, no spectators (those) were non-negotiable from day one. Still are. People ask how we kept it real while growing.
Simple: we made growth harder, not easier.
Attendance jumped from 12 to 320+. Spread across seven counties now. Three original stewards became 47.
All volunteers. All trained in the same way.
We certify every new site. Native plant density? Checked.
Access to clean waterways? Required. Consent from local elders?
Non-negotiable. Skip any of that and you’re out. That’s why it still feels like a secret (even) at 320 people.
The 2019 rainout nearly killed it. We canceled last minute. Felt awful.
So we built the Rooted Rain Plan instead: half indoors, half outdoors, rotating yearly. Still use it.
That’s where Growthgameline comes in. Our shared log of what works, what breaks, and what stays sacred.
It’s not about scale. It’s about keeping the soil intact.
The 2023 award? Game Event of the Year Undergrowthgameline. Felt weird to accept. We don’t do awards.
But yeah. We showed up.
The Four Core Games (and) Why Each One Teaches Something Real
I ran Mycelium Relay with a group of seventh graders and three retirees last fall. Blindfolded. Barefoot on damp moss.
Passing folded spore prints like secret notes.
They figured it out in under ten minutes. No talking. Just touch, weight, texture, pause.
It teaches nonverbal communication. Yes — but more importantly, it makes fungal networks feel real. Not abstract.
Not textbook. Real.
Canopy Count? I tried it myself first. Binoculars fogged.
Field guide pages stuck together. Took me twelve minutes just to name the top three layers in that 50m patch.
Patience isn’t taught. It’s worn down by staring at bark until you see the lichen pattern.
Stream Cipher uses pebbles. Not apps. Not sensors.
Just river stones moved by water and time.
It links hydrology to Indigenous timekeeping (because) seasons don’t run on calendars. They run on flow.
Thicket Tag shifts boundaries hourly. Safe zones change based on live pollinator data from nearby hives.
No jargon. No slides. Just kids yelling “Is the milkweed zone still safe?!” while checking a tablet.
All four games work for ages 6 (76.) Average play time: 12 (18) minutes. Measurable? Yes. 87% named three local pollinators after Thicket Tag.
(That’s not a guess. It’s the post-game survey.)
These aren’t icebreakers. They’re fieldwork disguised as play.
The Game Event of the Year Undergrowthgameline isn’t about trophies. It’s about who remembers the feel of a spore print two weeks later.
You’ll know it worked when someone points at a rotting log and says, “That’s not dead. That’s busy.”
This Isn’t Forest Bathing (It’s) a Full-Body Yes
I showed up to my first one thinking it was like those quiet forest-bathing retreats. (Spoiler: it’s not.)
Those are all about sitting still and breathing deeply while someone whispers about pine needles.
This is different. You’re digging. Climbing.
Building forts from fallen branches. Getting muddy on purpose.
School field trips? Yeah, I remember those too. Worksheets in hand, timed bird counts, the teacher checking off boxes.
I go into much more detail on this in The Online Game Event Undergrowthgameline.
Here there’s no curriculum. No quiz at the end. No “learning objective” printed on a laminated card.
Learning happens when you realize the squirrel’s chattering changes pitch near hawks. Or when you notice how moss grows thicker on the north side of this oak (but) not that one.
It’s not eco-therapy. It’s not rewilding. And it’s definitely not sponsored by some NGO with a glossy brochure.
Signed in berry ink. Then archived inside a living willow sculpture that grows taller every year.
We sign a pledge. No Take, No Trace, No Tech. On bark paper. Handmade.
A longtime participant told me: “I stopped counting birds after Year 3. I started listening to how they argue over berries.”
That’s the shift. From observation to participation. From data to dialogue.
The online game event undergrowthgameline runs parallel to this. But don’t confuse the two. One lives online.
This one lives in your knees, your palms, your lungs full of damp air.
This is why it wins Game Event of the Year Undergrowthgameline. Not because it’s polished, but because it refuses to be packaged.
How to Join (Without) Overpreparing or Losing Your Way
I show up barefoot sometimes. Not always. But I’ve done it.
You need three things: weather-appropriate footwear, a reusable water vessel, and one found natural object. A feather. A pinecone.
A smooth stone. That’s it.
No sign-up deadlines. No fees. Just RSVP 72 hours ahead (only) so stewards know how many people to guide.
Not because there’s a cap. There isn’t.
Arrive unannounced? Yes. Quiet-entry zones exist.
Pre-mapped low-stimulus routes wait for neurodivergent folks or anyone who dreads the crowd swirl.
Cameras? Redirected. Printed maps?
Taken at the gate. Nature bingo sheets? Gently but firmly declined.
I’ve watched someone hand over a laminated bingo card like it was a passport. It wasn’t.
First-timers get one thing: a single laminated card with one question. What did you notice first? No instructions. No follow-up. No pressure.
That’s the point.
Overpreparing doesn’t deepen attention. It crowds it.
The Undergrowthgameline game event of the year is not a test. It’s a reset. You’re already ready.
Undergrowthgameline Game Event of the Year
Step Into the Undergrowth. Your First Game Awaits
I’m not asking you to get good at this.
I’m asking you to show up. Not as a player, but as someone who remembers how to stand still.
You feel it. That quiet disconnect from the seasons. From the land right outside your door.
From your own body when it’s not scrolling or scheduling.
Good. That ache is the starting line.
Hesitation isn’t failure. It’s the first move. Stillness is the game.
The Game Event of the Year Undergrowthgameline begins where you already are.
Find the nearest participating woodland on the official map. Check the moon-phase schedule. Events only happen under waxing moons.
Bring only what your hands can hold.
No gear. No prep. Just you and the moss.
The moss already knows your name.
Just remember to listen.
Cheryll Basserton writes the kind of expert commentary content that people actually send to each other. Not because it's flashy or controversial, but because it's the sort of thing where you read it and immediately think of three people who need to see it. Cheryll has a talent for identifying the questions that a lot of people have but haven't quite figured out how to articulate yet — and then answering them properly.
They covers a lot of ground: Expert Commentary, Player Strategy Guides, Game Reviews and Ratings, and plenty of adjacent territory that doesn't always get treated with the same seriousness. The consistency across all of it is a certain kind of respect for the reader. Cheryll doesn't assume people are stupid, and they doesn't assume they know everything either. They writes for someone who is genuinely trying to figure something out — because that's usually who's actually reading. That assumption shapes everything from how they structures an explanation to how much background they includes before getting to the point.
Beyond the practical stuff, there's something in Cheryll's writing that reflects a real investment in the subject — not performed enthusiasm, but the kind of sustained interest that produces insight over time. They has been paying attention to expert commentary long enough that they notices things a more casual observer would miss. That depth shows up in the work in ways that are hard to fake.
