The holiday game wheel

We were all gathered in the living room, the kind of comfortable sprawl that only happens when the main event is over. Someone had brought out a tablet, and the idea of a game wheel just sort of drifted into the conversation. It wasn't about winning anything. It was just something to do together, a little spark for the evening.

When the wheel starts to spin

The screen lit up with a circle of possibilities, all silly holiday-themed things we could do. There was a collective lean-in, a few murmurs. You could feel the shift from just sitting to being part of something, even if it was small. The anticipation wasn't about who would 'get' something, but about what we'd all have to do next.I remember the soft whirring sound it made. It felt like the center of the room for a second, this little digital thing holding our attention. Then it slowed, the pointer drifting past 'Charades' and 'Two Truths and a Lie' before settling.

The reactions are the best part

It landed on 'Holiday Song Karaoke.' A couple of people groaned playfully, already sinking into the couch in mock horror. My cousin, though, her face just lit up—she'd been waiting for an excuse. That's the thing I love about these moments. The same result gets such different energy from different people.It's never a uniform cheer or a collective sigh. It's a mosaic of reactions. Someone's relief, someone's eager embarrassment, someone else's quiet amusement watching it all. The shared enjoyment is in witnessing those reactions as much as in doing the activity itself.We spent the next twenty minutes butchering classic carols, laughing more at our own lack of talent than the songs. The wheel had done its job. It wasn't an instruction; it was a permission slip for a specific kind of silly.

What stays with you

Later, cleaning up wrapping paper, it wasn't the gifts I remembered most vividly. It was the look on my uncle's face when he had to do an interpretive dance to 'Jingle Bell Rock.' The wheel created a series of tiny, shared stories. That's the real magic of it, I think. It manufactures little moments of connection that feel entirely unmanufactured.