An improv game for people who enjoy either improvising ridiculous things, or watching other people do so.
Imagine, if you will, a game so splendidly absurd that it defies the petty tyrannies of logic, yet so profoundly simple that it mirrors the eternal dance of the cosmos. Such is Mornington Crescent, a pastime of such venerable obscurity that it might have been devised by angels in a fit of mirth—or, more likely, by Englishmen in a fit of tea-soaked idleness. To adapt it for the hallowed platforms of Wonderplace Alpha, that grand emporium where the trains of time and space converge like pilgrims at a celestial shrine, is to elevate it from mere diversion to a parable of the human soul’s journey through the infinite.
The game begins, as all true things must, with a map—not a mere chart of streets and stations, but a tapestry of possibility. In its original form, the map is that of the London Underground, a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the grey and glorious city, where names like “Cockfosters” and “Tooting Bec” sing of a world both ridiculous and sublime. At Wonderplace Alpha, however, we shall unfurl a grander scroll: a network of portals, each bearing titles of poetic resonance—Stellar Drift, Glimmering Void, Ebon Clocktower, and, naturally, Mornington Crescent itself, the destination of all destinations, the station that is both nowhere and everywhere.
The rules, dear friends, are a paradox wrapped in a jest. Players—those brave knights of Wonderplace—take turns naming stations from this cosmic atlas. Each declaration is a thrust in a duel of wits, a step in a pilgrimage toward the sacred Mornington Crescent. Yet, herein lies the rub: the rules are never spoken, for to define them is to destroy them. They shift like shadows on a windy day, known only to the initiated, who nod sagely at each move as if deciphering the riddles of Creation. One might cry “Lunar Causeway!” and be met with gasps of approval, for it places the opponent in sidings—a state of temporary banishment, like a soul cast into purgatory. Another might retort with “Whispering Nebula!” only to falter, for the Knid’s Gambit (a rule unspoken yet absolute) forbids such a move after a vowel-heavy station has been played.
[Verse 1: The Bold Proclamation]
(Sung by a stentorian Master of Ceremonies, with a booming baritone)
“I am the very model of a host with grand intention,
To stage a game of wit and fame beyond all comprehension!
At Wonderplace Alpha, our event of steam and splendor,
We’ve added now a contest that no mortal can surrender!
‘Tis Mornington Crescent, that sport of rail and riddle,
Where minds must twist and turn and leap through logic’s tricky middle!
With maps and mirth, we’ll chase the prize through London’s tangled lore,
A triumph of the intellect—such fun was ne’er before!”
[Chorus: The Enthusiastic Crowd]
(A rousing ensemble, with goggles raised and voices soaring)
“With maps and mirth, we’ll chase the prize through London’s tangled lore,
A triumph of the intellect—such fun was ne’er before!
Oh, Mornington Crescent, thou jewel of cunning play,
At Wonderplace Alpha, we’ll revel in thy sway!”
[Verse 2: The Rules, Sort Of]
(The MC again, with a sly wink and a twirl of his cane)
“The rules, you see, are simple—yet delightfully abstruse,
A labyrinth of stations where the clever mind deduce!
From King’s Cross to the Crescent, with a detour most bizarre,
You’ll dodge through Camden Town and shout ‘Eureka!’ from afar!
No steamship nor automaton can match this game’s caprice,
For every move’s a mystery, each turn a masterpiece!
With brass and wit, we’ll clash in this, our grandest of pursuits,
And crown a champion worthy of our goggles and our boots!”
[Chorus: The Crowd, Louder Still]
“With brass and wit, we’ll clash in this, our grandest of pursuits,
And crown a champion worthy of our goggles and our boots!
Oh, Mornington Crescent, thou jewel of cunning play,
At Wonderplace Alpha, we’ll revel in thy sway!”
[Bridge: The Steampunk Twist]
(A sprightly soprano, perhaps a lady in a bustle, chimes in)
“In airships high we might have soared, with gears and steam a-plenty,
But now on terra firma, we’ll outwit the wise and gently!
No cog nor piston powers this, ‘tis brain alone that reigns,
Through Tube lines dark and devious, we’ll weave our mental chains!
The Tiffin Master calls the start, the teacups clink with glee,
A steampunk twist on London’s map—such sport was meant to be!”
[Finale: The Grand Hurrah]
(Full company, with bombastic gusto and a dramatic finish)
“So come, ye lords and ladies, ye inventors bold and bright,
To Wonderplace Alpha, where we duel by gaslight!
With Mornington Crescent, we’ll astound the world anew,
A game so grand, so glorious—there’s nothing it can’t do!
We’ll sing, we’ll shout, we’ll strategize, till victory’s sweet embrace,
At Wonderplace Alpha, this is steampunk’s finest race!
Oh, Mornington Crescent, thou crown of jest and cheer,
Our Wonderplace triumph begins right here!”
[Coda: The Crowd, With One Last Roar]
“Oh, Mornington Crescent, thou crown of jest and cheer,
Our Wonderplace triumph begins—right—here!”
(Cue triumphant brass fanfare, clanking gears, and a puff of theatrical steam!)
