A card game about your guests
A deck built from scratch so every card carries a guest.
The game comes first — written for the people who will be in the room, and never run again. Everything else is built around it. Open one to see how.
Two friends turning forty in the same year, both happiest outdoors and one of them a serious hiker. A dinner would have been wrong. So the party went onto Hong Kong's country trails: teams in colours, five checkpoints, and a route built so a seven-year-old and a fifty-five-year-old could both finish it.
Every task is physical — a jigsaw, a token, an object to find, a marshal to convince — because the moment one of them can be solved with a phone, the fastest team is the one that types quickest and the day is pointless.
Five stations running at once, scored on a single sheet, with a queue system so nobody stood still. The games were written for this guest list — the card deck carried the guests' own faces, and the house rules were built around who was actually coming.
Two custom apps ran the night: one to keep the queue moving between stations, and a caricature station that turned a photo into a framed print while the guest waited.
A beach gives you nothing: no power, no shade, no tables, and a wind that takes anything not weighted down. Everything here was carried across the sand — easels, boards, paints, bunting and the letters — and carried back out again.
Art jamming solves the problem every mixed-age party has: the competitive ones want to win something, and the quiet ones want to be left alone. Painting lets both happen in the same hour, and everybody goes home holding what they did.
Paints, boards, brushes and aprons are all provided, so guests arrive with nothing and leave with something.
The site was a Victorian bandstand in a public park, booked for the afternoon, and it came with nothing — no power, no furniture, no cover. Everything in these pictures was carried up and built on the grass in about three hours.
Hong Kong gave us fog instead of sun, which turned out to be the best thing about the day. We stopped fighting it and let the balloons and the greenery sit against a white sky.
A deck built from scratch so every card carries a guest.
Their year on a front page — real stories, written up as news, laid out as a proper broadsheet and printed for the table.
Designed for the night and worn on it.
Drawn while the party runs, framed, and taken home.
Every game gets its rules rewritten for the room — short enough that a table of people who have never played can start in two minutes, and balanced so the competitive ones do not run away with it.
Printed clues for hunts and city races, written so a phone cannot solve them.
The part nobody sees.
Her likes and dislikes, printed as a board of cards.
Food Court, Can'n Ball, Ball in a Hole, Caricatures — every station named, designed and printed so the room explains itself.
Four parties, and the things we made for them.
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