On Saturday, October 17, twenty-four teams were recruited into five guilds and sent out across Capitol Hill to take territory from each other. All of it is below, answers included.
Five games in the hall and ten out in the neighborhood. The puzzles were the ten verses that found the zones, the banner puzzle that got teams recruited, and the one nobody was told about.
Eastern Market opened in 1873, and for most of that first year the people running it could not agree on how to fill the place, which is how the guilds started.
There were five leaders with completely different ideas. The first wanted an auction environment with the chaos echoing throughout the neighborhood. The second wanted to position the stalls around vendors like the candlemakers and bakers so smells could waft down the street. The third was certain the whole business came down to relationships and providing special discounts to return customers. The fourth focused on printing an event calendar so that families could plan accordingly. The fifth wanted music and art filling the empty spaces to give people a story to tell at home.
It went on for the better part of a year, and then, in the way of people who have run out of argument, they formed a committee. The committee turned out to work. Each of the five covered ground the other four did not, and between them they filled the market and kept it full.
The committee itself lasted only a few years. The rivalry outlived it by a century and a half, because the people who had backed each of the five approaches went on keeping score against one another long after there was anything official to keep score about. Eventually a neighborhood puzzler grew tired of hearing about it and built something that would settle the question once a year: five guilds, a map of Capitol Hill divided between them, and a day of games to decide who held what. That is still the format.
Every guild sends a captain. Every new team gets claimed by whichever guild recognizes itself in them, and whoever holds the most ground at the end of the day keeps the Gambit until the following October, with the bragging rights that go with it.
Before a team was given anything else they huddled around one phone and filled in a form together. The form was worth nineteen points, spread across what a team said it liked, how it preferred to play and which games it would pick up at a loose end. The guild that collected the most of those points was usually the one that claimed them, though the final sort also had to keep the guilds close to even in size.
This is the form. Fill it in and it will sort you the way it sorted them.
Give more to the play your team loves most. Each star is one point to that guild.
No middle option. Each pick is one point.
Which would your team reach for at a random get-together? Each one is worth two points, and every game on this list belonged to a guild.
A final step of the form asked teams to reflect about the people with whom they play:
The form finished by naming three guilds most interested in them, which helped the sorting process later.
Fifteen banners hung around the walls of the hall. Five games ran on tables in the middle of the floor, and five guild leaders moved between them watching who was worth recruiting.
One for each guild, chosen to feel like the guild running it and playable in a few minutes by strangers. Open any of them for the rules sheet that sat on the table.
Four of the five games cleared away with the tables. The Storytellers' board did not. One word per sticky note, added by anybody who walked past, and by the end of the morning the boards held three stories with no author.
Fourteen of the names on these walls were real Ludic Legends. One was an interloper, and naming him to a guild leader got a team recruited. Click any banner to read it full size.
Every team was handed a printed list of the fifteen names. Almost every banner spoke up for somebody else on that list, so the work was to clear the names that were covered and see who was left over.
Her banner is not a sentence, it is a grid of words. Read down the four columns and it gives four instructions at once: every fourth word unlocks clues, scan for context and listen, I am a past champ, start with the word begin. Read across the rows instead, and every fourth word spells the last of those back, which confirms the method.
Annette Zamboni's second instruction was the one that mattered: scan for context and listen. Four banners carried a QR code, and three of them were labelled Local Designer and led to the work of Gene Koo, Connie Vogelmann and Elizabeth Hargrave, who design real games a person can go and buy. The fourth sat on Trusty Oddsmith's banner with no label on it at all, and it played a recording rather than opening a website. That recording held the only instruction that appeared nowhere in print: cross off any name beginning with X. Xander Jenstone and Xavier Gerry came off the list.
Xander Jenstone's banner, before it comes off the list, tells teams to compare notes with one another and says his favorite champions loved to switch places. There were two versions of the printed list. Put a sheet next to another team's and two names have moved: Jamie Mysteries and Elizabeth Hargrave. It is the only clue on the walls that cannot be solved alone.
Twelve of the fifteen are spoken for by somebody else on the wall. Two are struck off by the recording. That leaves one.
One name on the sheet had nobody speaking for it: Gary Elbridge, Risktaker, Class of 1925, who loves pushing boundaries of what anyone thinks is fair or reasonable to try, and who has never won anything.
That was the answer the guild leaders were waiting for. Turned around, with one vowel changed, Gary Elbridge is Elbridge Gerry, a real person whose name was misspelled on purpose so that a guild leader could say it out loud and still deny it.
Remember the name. It comes back twice.
A team that named the interloper correctly visited the guildmaster, who was stationed at a vending machine near the exit and shared a four-digit PIN. The team keyed it into an iPad and the machine dropped an envelope into the tray to reveal their guild. That PIN did double duty: it also served as the team's passcode for the app.
This is where everybody landed. The machine sorted teams one at a time and balanced as it went, counting teams rather than players, since an even spread of teams is what keeps the games at a zone fair; player numbers mattered less.
Inside was a letter from the guild captain, a printed battle map, ten clues in verse, a laminated compass and five small paper objects.
Click any of them to expand the design.
The verses gave that away one zone at a time. Five of the ten zones had a host, and each host wanted to see one of these before handing a code over. The GO square bought a team into the Taskmaster's game. The die finished the Croupier's throw in the sidewalk. The Architect wanted the letter tile, the Arbiter wanted the bridge card, and the Steward wanted the page.
Each object carried its own number, though none of them said so. The GO square is where a board begins. The die showed two pips, the letter tile was worth three, the bidding card was the four of hearts, and the story was Chapter Five. Put them in that order and the first four stop being objects and start being sounds.
Go to Elbridge. The cemetery.
The fifth object named the cemetery. It was a page from a gravedigger's story about the gentlemen from Congress and the wall of the ground they lie in, and there is only one Congressional Cemetery. It sat east of every zone on the battle map, and it was the one place that mattered which the map did not show.
Any team that had been paying attention in the Hall of Champions already had the name. So the five scraps did two jobs at once, a toll at five different hosts and an address between them, and a team could spend the whole afternoon handing them over without noticing the second one. What nobody had yet was a reason to go there, or anything to do once they arrived. That came out of the clue sheet.
Every zone, every score and every change of hands on the map went through a single page on a phone. Teams logged in with the name and PIN the guildmaster had given them, and from that point the app knew which guild they belonged to, which zones they had reached and what each of those zones owed them.
Below is a walk through what a team could open during the day, using a made-up Tacticians team called The Quiet Rooks.

All ten games are written up in full a little further on.
Each zone was somewhere teams had to travel to and explore. The shape was the same every time: a verse put them in roughly the right streets, the place itself gave up a three-digit code, the code opened the game, and the game decided who held the ground. Five zones had a host who wanted to see one of the paper objects before handing the code over. At the other five there was nobody to ask, and teams worked it out between themselves.
A zone belonged to whichever guild led its game at that moment, and the map redrew itself as the lead changed.
Open any zone for the clue, the solution and how it finished.
The app recorded the whole board once an hour. What follows is that record, on the same map the players had in their pockets. Press play to watch the day run, or pick an hour. Zone 4 changed hands four times.
At three o'clock the games closed and the afternoon's scoring stopped. Coming to the ceremony was optional and not everybody came. Two things on the map were still unsettled when they sat down.
The Hidden Hand stayed open for a few minutes after play ended, so that teams who had cracked the bold-word instruction but could not get out to Congressional Cemetery and back in time could still claim their move. Only one team had sealed one during play. The other four did it in that window.
Zone 9 was the haiku zone, the only one on the map that speed and luck could not win. Teams who found the plaque outside CHAW spent part of the afternoon writing three lines on their phones about what games and play meant to them, and none of it was scored at the time. Each guild then voted for its own best poem, which produced five finalists and no winner.
So Zone 9 was still unclaimed when the room sat down. The five finalists were read aloud without naming the guilds that wrote them, and everybody voted.
Then we opened the five sealed moves and played them one at a time. Each one landed on the board the last one had left behind. Every one of them is a gerrymander: it changes who owns ground without anybody playing for it. What started as the Risktakers ending the day in the lead finished with the Builders taking the Guilded Gambit.
After all the map changes the Builders gained two zones, which was enough to tip the final result toward them. Their own move echoed a Risktakers re-roll of Zone 9, and the re-roll came up Builders. The second zone came from the Storytellers, whose Plot Twist flipped Zone 7 and moved the Builders from the bottom of it to the top. The Storytellers ended the day with nothing.
The Breadwinners’ Deal appeared to do nothing at all. Zone 2 and Zone 3 were both led by the Risktakers, so swapping them changed no colors on the map, but it swapped the order underneath and that put the Diplomats second on Zone 3. One move later the Spirit Seven knocked the Risktakers off Zone 3 and the Diplomats took it. The Spirit Seven are Tacticians, and before the Deal second place had been theirs.
Elbridge Gerry signed a bill in 1812 and gave his name to this.
He was governor of Massachusetts, and the law he signed redrew the state senate districts so that his party would keep them. One district bent around the top of the state in a shape a Boston newspaper thought looked like a salamander, and Gerry plus salamander made gerrymander.
It worked, which is the part worth sitting with. That autumn the Federalists took roughly fifty-one percent of the senate vote across Massachusetts and came away with eleven of the forty seats. More people voted for them and they lost the chamber anyway. Gerry lost his own job in the same election, the Federalists swept back a year later and repealed the districts outright, and the word stuck to him forever.
None of it was illegal. The new map stuck and the results counted. That was also true of the five moves in the Guilded Gambit. Yet in both cases, the final outcome left an uneasy feeling that the true winner may not have been worthy. This sparked some questions the whole day was built around:
A healthy debate or high voter turnout suggests a system is alive with energy, while increasing apathy toward a system often marks the death of that system. We believe games can help make these abstract conversations more visible and tangible. As the old adage goes, “seeing is believing.”
Finding a zone meant solving its verse, getting to the right place and entering the code. Across the day teams did that 191 times, an average of 8.3 of the 10 zones each. Counting the Hidden Hand as an eleventh, these are the teams that reached ten or more.
Three teams went eleven for eleven. Six more reached ten.
The list above counts ground covered. This one is about what happened once a team got there: how high they placed in the games they played, and whether they found the eleventh node.
Every zone above has its own board of top performers.
We asked six questions after the day. The survey closed on November 6 with ten responses, and every one of them is published in full.
The web app that ran the day was built with AI assistance over three months. We measured what that used in electricity, water and carbon, what we did in response, and how anyone can run the same numbers on their own project.
Read the AI footprint report