Ladders
The simplicity rule
When both players' options are numbers, the position is worth the simplest number strictly between them. Not the midpoint, not the average, and the difference between "simplest" and "middle" is the entire content of the rule.
What is at stake
Some positions both players are desperate to move in, and some neither player wants to touch. The difference is a number — how much the move is worth — and it turns out to be the most useful single quantity for deciding where to play.
How hard is it
Every theorem on this site stays true at any size. The answers stop being reachable long before the games get interesting — deciding the winner of a generalised board game is PSPACE-complete, and an exact evaluator gives out after a few dozen moves.
The sum is the object
Real positions come apart into independent regions, and a move happens in exactly one of them. That operation — the disjunctive sum — is what the whole theory is built to survive, and it is the reason values exist at all.
Grundy sequences, and where they stop being predictable
Computing one Grundy value is a mex. Computing all of them produces a sequence, and the sequences do something nobody has fully explained — most of them eventually repeat, some of them take thousands of terms to start, and for a few nobody knows whether they ever do.
Infinitesimals
Some positions are positive — Left wins them whoever moves first — and smaller than every positive number, including a millionth and a millionth of that. They are the values that decide close games, and the smallest of them is a single move's worth of nothing.
Misère play
Change one word — the player who cannot move wins — and the games are identical, the strategies are not, and almost every theorem on this site stops being true. It is the cheapest possible modification and the most expensive.
Reading a thermograph
A thermograph is two walls rising from a number line, closing in as the tax on moving increases, and meeting where the position stops being worth fighting over. Everything about a position's hotness is in the shape.
Outcomes do not add
Knowing who wins each part of a position tells almost nothing about who wins the whole. Two first-player wins can sum to a second-player win, or to another first-player win, and no rule distinguishes the cases from the outcomes alone.
Amazons, and when a position becomes a sum
Every technique on this site starts from a position already broken into independent parts. Amazons does not begin that way — the board is one fight until the arrows cut it, and the moment of cutting is something the play produces rather than the analyst assumes.
Canonical form
Two positions are worth the same when neither player can tell them apart inside any larger game. Deciding that could be an infinite search. Instead there is a normal form — delete what nobody would play, bypass what backfires — and equality becomes a comparison of two small trees.
One board, two rules
Col forbids painting next to your own colour. Snort forbids painting next to your opponent's. One word differs, the boards are identical, and the values that come out are not the same kind of object.
Comparing positions
One position is worth at least another when the second player wins their difference. That is the only definition there is, it is a computation rather than a judgement, and it produces an order in which some pairs are simply not comparable.
Cutcake, where every value is a whole number
A partizan game in which no position is ever worth a fraction, a star or a fight. Every value is an integer, the integer is a count of spare moves, and the pattern it follows is decided by binary digits.
Domineering
One player places dominoes vertically, the other horizontally, on a shared grid. The rules take one line, the values are a mess, and that mess is the point — this is what the theory looks like applied to a game nobody designed for it.
Hackenbush is a numeral
Draw a stalk of coloured edges. Read it as a string, blue for one and red for zero, and the string is the binary expansion of what the position is worth. Not approximately — exactly, and the site computes it both ways and refuses to build if they disagree.
Loopy games
The whole theory assumes play stops. Allow a position to recur and the induction that every value rests on has nothing to stand on — and a fifth outcome appears that normal-play theory has no name for.
Nim, and the nim-sum
Three heaps of counters, take as many as you like from one of them, and the player who takes the last counter wins. The winning condition is not a search, not a table, and not a heuristic — it is the bitwise exclusive-or of the heap sizes, and it was found in 1901.
Who moves last
The player who cannot move loses. That single convention generates the whole theory — and it produces four outcomes rather than three, because a position can be confused with zero rather than greater, smaller or equal to it.
Every impartial game is a Nim heap
Sprague and Grundy proved, independently and four years apart, that any position in any impartial game is equivalent to a single heap of counters. Not similar to one — equal to one, interchangeable with it inside any larger game.
Sprouts, and the game that is not one
Two games played with dots and curves, invented in the same room, all but indistinguishable on paper. One is unsolved past forty spots. The other has no decisions in it at all — the winner is fixed before the first curve is drawn.
Worth nothing, and worth fighting for
A switch is a position both players want to move in. Its average value can be zero while the difference between getting there first and second is enormous, and that gap is a second number every position carries.
Toads and Frogs
Toads shuffle right, frogs shuffle left, and either may jump over one of the other. A strip six cells long is worth exactly up. Another six-cell strip is worth exactly down. Nobody has a formula for which.
Wythoff's game, and the ratio nobody put there
Two heaps, three kinds of move, and losing positions that lie along a line of irrational slope. Nothing in the rules mentions a ratio, a length or a continuous quantity — and the golden ratio comes out anyway.