A door clicks open, and we step inside. Not just into the escape room, but into something deeper—something unsaid. The game is simple: solve the clues, unlock the doors, get out. But the real puzzle isn’t the one set up by the designers. It’s the one we walked in with.
Everyone here has a story, a reason they’re standing in this room instead of somewhere else. And while on the surface we are a team, inside, we are a tangle of unspoken thoughts, unresolved tensions, and quiet calculations.
We all bring something into a room like this—beyond job titles, beyond tenure. It’s not on our name tags, but it shows up quickly when the stakes are low but the time is tight.
And if you looked closely, if you stood quietly in the corner like I did for a minute before the clock started, you could see the different players take their places. Not officially, not out loud—but in body language, in side glances, in how quickly—or slowly—they stepped toward the first puzzle.
There’s always a few familiar types in a moment like this. You might recognize them.
The Loyalist
I remember when this company felt like home. When the old leadership still walked the halls, when decisions made sense, when my work felt like it mattered. Now, I feel like a guest in my own house. The new people—they’re fine. They mean well. But they don’t get it. They don’t get us. I don’t know if I want to be here anymore, or if I’m just here because I don’t know where else to go.
The Optimist
This is a fresh start. A new team, a new era. Sure, there are growing pains, but that’s what happens with change. We’ll figure it out—if people would just let go of the past. This resistance, this hesitation… it’s like trying to run forward while dragging an anchor. We’re all still here, aren’t we? So why not make the best of it?
The Skeptic
This is all for show. The ‘teambuilding exercise,’ the motivational speeches—it’s window dressing. We’re being watched, assessed. Who’s adapting? Who’s struggling? Who’s already looking for an exit? The real game isn’t in the clues on the wall. It’s in the dynamics, in the way we size each other up while pretending we’re just here to have fun.
The Survivor
I don’t care who’s in charge. I don’t care about the history, the politics, the egos. My job is to adapt, to stay useful, to make sure that when the next shake-up comes—and there’s always a next one—I’m still standing. That’s how you last in places like this. You don’t get attached. You keep moving.
The Newcomer
I don’t belong here. Not really. I can feel it in the way they talk around me, the inside jokes I don’t get, the names that still hang in the air like ghosts. I was brought in to fill a gap, to replace someone. Maybe someone they actually liked. No one says it, but I can feel it. And I wonder—how long until I’m the one being replaced?
These thoughts don’t get spoken. Instead, we smile, nod, focus on the game. We spin dials on a lock, piece together numbers from scattered clues, pretend that the only thing that matters is getting out in under 60 minutes.
But the truth is, the escape room is just a metaphor for the places we already feel trapped.
Some of us are trapped in the past, in the way things used to be. Others are trapped in uncertainty, unsure where we fit in this new structure. Some of us are just passing through, waiting for the next door to open.
The thing about escape rooms, though—about any room—is that you don’t get out alone. The door only opens if people work together, even when they don’t fully trust each other yet. Even when they’re carrying ghosts. Even when they’d rather be anywhere else.
The thing about being a designer—and a Deductionist, at that—is that you don’t just walk through experiences like this.
You dissect them.
You get curious.
You feel the tickle at the back of your brain saying, There’s something deeper here. Keep going.
And that’s why we can’t not talk about the G-word.
Gamification.
A word so overused and misunderstood, it might as well come with a free lanyard and a slide deck. But when you’re inside an actual game—one with urgency, psychology, unspoken collaboration, and consequence—you remember what the word was supposed to mean.
So before we come back to the plane, the team, the future we’re flying toward, let’s take a short detour.
Down the design rabbit hole.
Gamification—The “G-Word” That’s Lost Its Meaning
Somewhere along the way, “gamification” became a buzzword. The kind that gets thrown into PowerPoints by people who think adding a leaderboard will fix a broken system. The kind that turns serious faces in boardrooms into wide-eyed believers—until they realize it doesn’t work the way they imagined.
Designers—the real ones, the ones who’ve spent years studying human behavior—roll their eyes when they hear the G-word. Because they know gamification isn’t just about points and badges. It’s about mechanics. It’s about stakes.
And this? This escape room is gamification in the truest sense.
The power of a ticking clock is that it peels away the excess. Every second that passes strips off a layer of baggage, leaving only instinct, reaction, and focus. The things that weighed us down—the frustrations, the doubts, the grudges—lose their grip because they simply don’t matter right now. The urgency forces clarity. You stop wondering whether you belong. You stop overanalyzing your role. You just do.
Then there are the puzzles. The unspoken distribution of labor. We could all work on the same thing at the same time, but that would be chaos. There’s just not enough time on the clock for that. The room forces hierarchy without asking for it.
And, of course, there’s competition.
We aren’t just solving a room. We’re racing against another team—put into a separate escape room with the same objective. There’s no prize, no real consequence for losing. But none of that matters, because for a certain type of person, competition is the only thing that makes them forget their doubts.
It unites people in ways that team meetings never could. You might not have trusted the person standing next to you an hour ago. But now? Now they just found the last clue. Now they just got you out of here. Now, at least for this moment, they are on your side.
And maybe, just maybe, that feeling lasts a little longer than the game.
We left the game room closer than we had entered, and not even the Skeptic could argue that.
We had, after all, beaten the room—with time to spare. We cracked the code, found the clues, and emerged victorious into the late afternoon sun like a scrappy band of misfits who’d just robbed a bank and high-fived our way out of it.
The Optimist probably expected nothing less. The Loyalist, at the very least, had a new thread of hope to pull on. Even the Survivor cracked a grin that looked suspiciously like belief.
We walked together—shoulder to shoulder, sweat-soaked and slightly buzzed on adrenaline—through the streets we had entered like strangers. The same spray-painted alley now felt different. Warmer. Like it had always known we’d come out better on the other side.
And as we walked, we shed layers—not just sweat but skepticism, uncertainty, maybe even a bit of ego. Block by block, the graffiti gave way to galleries. The rough edges softened. And before we knew it, we were no longer escapees of a game—we were participants in a ritual.
Because then came the B-word.
Breaking bread.
We landed at a posh restaurant with dim lighting and sharp silverware, where we became, in corporate parlance, the equivalent of blood brothers over mixed drinks and loud laughter. Status was temporarily suspended, replaced by jokes and shared appetizers. Someone ordered something unpronounceable. Someone else footed the bill without blinking.
It was a reward. It was deserved. And it was a final boss-level team bonding moment dressed in truffle fries and overpriced cocktails.
We were, for a moment, exactly what we were supposed to be: united.
The next day, we showed up more casual—sneakers instead of shoes, polos instead of blazers—ready for one last round of reflection. A debrief. A group commitment to this strange new thing we might now call a team.
Then came the ride to the airport. The goodbyes. The slightly-too-loud laughter at the gate, followed by the awkward pause when boarding groups were called out loud and fast.
We didn’t talk about it directly, but everyone knew.
Something had shifted. Something had changed.
But was it just a moment? Or was this momentum?
That’s the real escape room now. The one with no clues, no timer, no key waiting under the lamp.
The 4+ hour flight home—cramped, loud, no upgrades in sight—would be the perfect place to think it through.
After all, no one wants to overspend on transportation.
We need that money for dinners.
The Plane Ride Home
There’s something about a plane ride after a trip like this.
The hum of the engine, the flicker of seatbelt signs, the dull ache behind your eyes from too much small talk and too little sleep. It’s the perfect space for reflection—whether you want it or not.
You can’t help but recap the trip. The event. The people. What you thought was going to happen on the way there, and what actually unfolded. You replay moments—the quiet ones, the surprising ones, the ones that felt like they meant something.
And the lingering question: was that just a moment, or the beginning of a movement?
Everyone on this plane has a choice. Some will leave this trip feeling different, like something clicked into place. They’ll buy in. Others will bide their time, smiling through meetings until they find a new team, a new company, a new game to play. And that’s just how it works.
Because we are not a family.
We are a team.
And teams update their rosters to win at a different game.
Your spot on that roster is never safe. It’s always being competed for. And when a new coach takes over, they get to choose the players that fit their system.
So maybe the real takeaway isn’t just about trust, or problem-solving, or whatever the HR report will say about this trip.
Maybe it’s about knowing that you’re always playing—whether you realize it or not.
And the ones who last?
They’re the ones who understand the game never really ends.
The Debrief That Never Ends
Long after the wheels touch down and the inbox floods back in…
Long after the Slack threads spiral and the meetings reclaim the space where momentum once lived…
There’s still that moment.
That pause.
Where you remember what it felt like when the door opened, and you weren’t just a worker, a role, a seat at the table—you were part of something. However brief.
That’s the real escape, isn’t it?
Not the room. Not the restaurant. Not the retreat.
It’s the possibility that for just a moment, we weren’t just surviving the system—
We were rewriting it.
The skeptic still has questions.
The loyalist still mourns what was.
The optimist still believes.
The survivor still watches.
The newcomer still wonders.
But for all of them—
for all of us—
this wasn’t just play.
This was a glimpse of what it could be if we chose to keep going.
That’s the hard part.
Not getting out.
But deciding what to do now that we’re on the other side.
This reflection is part of The Deductionists—a league of sharp minds unraveling the peculiar. Because if we don’t question it, who will?
🎙 Hear more irreverent insights on The Deductionists Podcast—available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and anywhere you get your podcasts.
🔗 Listen now:
👉 Apple Podcasts
👉 Spotify
Subscribe to the Newsletter on LinkedIn: The Deductionists Newsletter.