Domino Drop is a delightful new puzzle game with dominos and gravity! Learn how to play it in a minute, master it day by day. Your mind will be challenged. Your soul will be calmed. Features: - 3 unique game modes - 12 pleasant music tracks - Global Leaderboards - No Ads, No In-App Purchases
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7:13 AM
I place a domino down — it has a vertical orientation and is yellow on the top and bottom — and it causes a chain reaction that explodes downwards into a visual cacophony of numbers, leaving only a little stack left. I am lying on top of my bed and wearing my winter jacket, scarf, hat, and headphones when I turn around to look at the clock, and it is exactly time for me to leave. In one swift motion I grab my backpack and slip my shoes on as I close the door behind me. The world outside is cold.
7:30 AM
If I’m being honest, my train platform is more like a parking lot. There’s literally nowhere to sit, and no overhang to use as shelter should the rain or snow decide to bless my commute. In the seven minutes between now and when the train will hopefully arrive, I take the opportunity to drop some more dominos.
As the minutes pass I silently acknowledge each passing commuter joining me on the platform, and they all stand in line exactly where they had twenty-four hours prior. I consider how weird it is that we’ve all picked “spots” to inhabit, and that I could tell you each person’s without knowing who they are in real life. I’ve seen their faces every day for four years, but we’ve never interacted in any meaningful way. Never even a “hello,” never even a nod.
But I still recognize almost every single person. I know when they get haircuts and I know when they get new shoes. I wonder if they recognize me too as the train arrives on time. I can’t believe it as I slip my phone back into my jacket pocket.
7:38 AM
My trip, in total, takes just over two hours door to door. That number tends to shock people, and when they ask me how I do it my answer is always the same: I’m barely awake on the way there, and all I wanna do on the way home is decompress. Would I rather live closer to my office? Absolutely. But there are small joys in a long commute. Imagine sitting on your living room couch for one straight hour and just looking out the window. Imagine how weird that would feel. Guess where that’s not even the slightest bit weird, dear reader: That’s right. On a train.
Every day for about two hours I get to sit and space out and watch the world go by. Nobody questions it. In fact, it’s the expectation! Doing anything more than nothing is impressive. Getting any work done, listening to a podcast, reading a book — that’s all extracurricular to the table stakes of just sitting down and spacing out.
This morning, I am dropping dominos and listening to an album I’ve been meaning to check out. As I pause between moves, I watch as the trees and buildings and marshlands whip by. I consider taking a picture of the factory this morning, but I’ve already taken so many over the years. I look at my lock screen to check the name of the song as it wraps up. This is a really solid “train album.”
8:33 AM
Nestled in a corner between four to five other passengers, I am dropping dominos on my second train of the morning. After years and years, I’ve mastered riding this particular train: During the morning rush I know which specific car to board and exactly where to stand. I know at which stops I should move out of the way of other passengers leaving and at which stops I can stay perfectly still and continue to drop dominos without worry. Three stops in I can find a seat without feeling guilty, although I’ll only be sitting until the fourth and final stop arrives all too soon.
8:51 AM
I place a mobile order for a latte while I wait for the train doors to open because I hate money as much as I love caffeine. I switch apps to place one more domino before heading to the subway, or as I like to call it: The Subterranean Way. I am a big time idiot.
8:57 AM
My last train of the morning is a quick one, but just long enough to drop a few more dominos. I’ve been playing the same round since I first woke up this morning, but I’m still nowhere near my own high score. At a certain point, the game becomes more about avoiding fuck ups than anything else, and I’ve hit that point. I am fully immersed.
For the first time ever, I miss my stop and have to walk eight blocks downtown to my office.
3:13 PM
When fall turns to winter I get nosebleeds once or twice a day, usually without warning. In this particular instance I was in the middle of a meeting, and there are now about ten people sitting in a conference room wondering if I’ll come back.
I find that when I play Domino Drop all the way to work, everything else around me fades away entirely. I’ll begin to act purely on impulse instead of scrutinizing every potential move. When I achieve this zen-adjacent flow-state, I play better than ever.
But this is not the case when blood is flowing from my nose. In a game about avoiding fuck-ups, I am fucking up every possible move. After about two solid hours of playing the game on the way to work, it’s in this weird carpeted alcove in the bathroom that it all comes undone. With one hand clenching my nostrils together and the other swiping left and right, I am trying to force myself into that same zen-adjacent state I’d entered gracefully so many hours earlier. This never works. Almost as quickly as my nosebleed began, the game is over. I’ve lost.
The game comes to a screeching halt, and prominently displays my disappointing score. On the top left of the screen, a small number denotes the amount of games I’ve played in total: 1773.
On my commute home, I will start 1774.
I place a domino down — it has a vertical orientation and is yellow on the top and bottom — and it causes a chain reaction that explodes downwards into a visual cacophony of numbers, leaving only a little stack left. I am lying on top of my bed and wearing my winter jacket, scarf, hat, and headphones when I turn around to look at the clock, and it is exactly time for me to leave. In one swift motion I grab my backpack and slip my shoes on as I close the door behind me. The world outside is cold.
7:30 AM
If I’m being honest, my train platform is more like a parking lot. There’s literally nowhere to sit, and no overhang to use as shelter should the rain or snow decide to bless my commute. In the seven minutes between now and when the train will hopefully arrive, I take the opportunity to drop some more dominos.
As the minutes pass I silently acknowledge each passing commuter joining me on the platform, and they all stand in line exactly where they had twenty-four hours prior. I consider how weird it is that we’ve all picked “spots” to inhabit, and that I could tell you each person’s without knowing who they are in real life. I’ve seen their faces every day for four years, but we’ve never interacted in any meaningful way. Never even a “hello,” never even a nod.
But I still recognize almost every single person. I know when they get haircuts and I know when they get new shoes. I wonder if they recognize me too as the train arrives on time. I can’t believe it as I slip my phone back into my jacket pocket.
7:38 AM
My trip, in total, takes just over two hours door to door. That number tends to shock people, and when they ask me how I do it my answer is always the same: I’m barely awake on the way there, and all I wanna do on the way home is decompress. Would I rather live closer to my office? Absolutely. But there are small joys in a long commute. Imagine sitting on your living room couch for one straight hour and just looking out the window. Imagine how weird that would feel. Guess where that’s not even the slightest bit weird, dear reader: That’s right. On a train.
Every day for about two hours I get to sit and space out and watch the world go by. Nobody questions it. In fact, it’s the expectation! Doing anything more than nothing is impressive. Getting any work done, listening to a podcast, reading a book — that’s all extracurricular to the table stakes of just sitting down and spacing out.
This morning, I am dropping dominos and listening to an album I’ve been meaning to check out. As I pause between moves, I watch as the trees and buildings and marshlands whip by. I consider taking a picture of the factory this morning, but I’ve already taken so many over the years. I look at my lock screen to check the name of the song as it wraps up. This is a really solid “train album.”
8:33 AM
Nestled in a corner between four to five other passengers, I am dropping dominos on my second train of the morning. After years and years, I’ve mastered riding this particular train: During the morning rush I know which specific car to board and exactly where to stand. I know at which stops I should move out of the way of other passengers leaving and at which stops I can stay perfectly still and continue to drop dominos without worry. Three stops in I can find a seat without feeling guilty, although I’ll only be sitting until the fourth and final stop arrives all too soon.
8:51 AM
I place a mobile order for a latte while I wait for the train doors to open because I hate money as much as I love caffeine. I switch apps to place one more domino before heading to the subway, or as I like to call it: The Subterranean Way. I am a big time idiot.
8:57 AM
My last train of the morning is a quick one, but just long enough to drop a few more dominos. I’ve been playing the same round since I first woke up this morning, but I’m still nowhere near my own high score. At a certain point, the game becomes more about avoiding fuck ups than anything else, and I’ve hit that point. I am fully immersed.
For the first time ever, I miss my stop and have to walk eight blocks downtown to my office.
3:13 PM
When fall turns to winter I get nosebleeds once or twice a day, usually without warning. In this particular instance I was in the middle of a meeting, and there are now about ten people sitting in a conference room wondering if I’ll come back.
I find that when I play Domino Drop all the way to work, everything else around me fades away entirely. I’ll begin to act purely on impulse instead of scrutinizing every potential move. When I achieve this zen-adjacent flow-state, I play better than ever.
But this is not the case when blood is flowing from my nose. In a game about avoiding fuck-ups, I am fucking up every possible move. After about two solid hours of playing the game on the way to work, it’s in this weird carpeted alcove in the bathroom that it all comes undone. With one hand clenching my nostrils together and the other swiping left and right, I am trying to force myself into that same zen-adjacent state I’d entered gracefully so many hours earlier. This never works. Almost as quickly as my nosebleed began, the game is over. I’ve lost.
The game comes to a screeching halt, and prominently displays my disappointing score. On the top left of the screen, a small number denotes the amount of games I’ve played in total: 1773.
On my commute home, I will start 1774.