I’m autistic, and for most of my life socialising felt like a game everyone else had been given the rulebook for, except me.

I’d watch people in a group and marvel at how they knew. When to speak and when to wait. How long to hold eye contact before it got weird. When a conversation was ending. What the joke was. They all seemed to be reading from instructions I’d somehow never received, and I spent every social occasion frantically trying to reverse-engineer the rules in real time, exhausting myself, and still getting it wrong.

So I mostly stopped going. It was easier to be alone than to be constantly, quietly failing a test nobody would explain. But easier isn’t the same as happy. I was lonely in a way I’d more or less given up on solving.

Then I went to a board game night, and for the first time in my life, the rules were written down.

The unwritten exam

Let me try to explain what a normal social event is like for me, because I think a lot of people genuinely don’t know.

Imagine being dropped into an exam where nobody tells you the subject, the questions are invisible, everyone else seems to be passing effortlessly, and if you get an answer wrong people’s faces change in ways you can’t always read. Now imagine doing that for two hours while also pretending it’s relaxing and fun. That’s a party, for me.

The small talk especially. “How are you” that doesn’t want a real answer. The drifting, pointless chat that I now understand is the actual point but that I could never find my footing in. I’d either say too much about something I cared about and watch eyes glaze, or say nothing and be called quiet. There was no winning a game with no visible rules.

A game with actual rules

A support group I was part of mentioned a board game night that was relaxed and welcoming, and something about it appealed to the part of me that loves systems. A board game has rules. Explicit, written, agreed-upon rules. You can read them. Everyone follows the same ones. For me that was not boring, it was a profound relief.

I went, nervous as always. But the moment we started playing, something settled in me that almost never settles. I knew what I was supposed to do. It was written on the cards. There’s a structure to a game, turns that tell you exactly when it’s your moment to act and when it isn’t. No guessing. No invisible exam.

And here’s the wonderful part: with the structure holding everything up, the actual socialising became easy. We talked through the game. The conversation had a scaffold, a shared focus, natural pauses built right in. I wasn’t performing fluency anymore. I was just playing, and chatting happened around it, and for once I wasn’t behind.

I didn’t have to mask nearly as much. I could be enthusiastic about strategy and that was welcome, not weird. I could be quiet on someone else’s turn and that was just the game, not a social failure.

Finally fluent

That was a while ago now. The same group meets weekly, and the regulars know me, and the predictability of it, same people, same place, same structure, is exactly what lets me thrive instead of just cope. A couple of them have become genuine friends, the first new ones in a very long time.

I don’t think board games are magic. I think they’re legible, and legibility is what so many of us are starving for.

If socialising has always felt like an exam you were never given the syllabus for, here’s what a rulebook taught me:

  • You’re not bad at people. You’re bad at unwritten rules. Find the settings where the rules are written down.
  • Structure is a kindness, not a constraint. Board game nights give you turns, rules, and a shared focus, so the social pressure drops right off. Look for relaxed, beginner-friendly ones.
  • A shared activity does the hard part for you. You don’t have to manufacture conversation when there’s a game between you.
  • Predictable and regular is a strength. The same group, same night, every week, is how comfort and friendship grow.

Everyone else seemed to have the rulebook for socialising. At a board game night, someone finally handed me one, and I could breathe.

If the unwritten rules have always left you lost, find a place where they’re written down. Browse board game nights near you or clubs by your borough. Take a seat. Read the rules. You belong at the table.